Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.The New Arrival.“I suppose you couldn’t tell me where to find a man named Halse, could you, Mrs Shelford? He lives somewhere in this country.”The pretty and popular hostess of the Nodwengu Hotel at Ezulwini looked up quickly from her plate. So did several others seated at table.“Yes,” she answered, a little surprised. “Do you know him, then, Mr Denham?”“Well, in a sort of a way,” was the answer. “That is, I’ve heard a good deal about him, and was rather interested to make his acquaintance.”Now the expression “heard a good deal about him” raised a covert smile on more than one face round the table.“Ben Halse lives up in the Lumisana district,” answered the hostess. “But it’s an out-of-the-way place, and not easily got at.”“All the better. I like out-of-the-way places. They’re so jolly interesting. That’s why I pricked out a cross-country course here.”The speaker was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well set up, with a square, intellectual head; fair, clear-eyed and self-possessed, and might have been in the late thirties, i.e. in his very prime. He had arrived at Ezulwini the evening before, on horseback, and his baggage for the present consisted of what that unreliable animal could carry strapped across the saddle.“By the way,” said another man at the table, “I heard something about Ben Halse being due here just about now. Heard anything about it, Mrs Shelford?”“No.”“Perhaps he’s going to the opposition shop,” said the other mischievously.“He can if he likes,” was the crisp retort. “Only Ben Halse and ourselves have known each other all our lives, so I don’t think there’s much fun in that remark.”“That’s all there was in it, anyhow,” was the answer. “Now I think of it the report came through some of the police.”“Now, Mrs Shelford, you mustn’t say it,” cut in another man, in mock warning, he, incidentally, holding rank as Inspector in that useful corps.“Say what?”“That they are always ‘talking through their necks.’”“Wait till I do,” she retorted, with a laugh, the fact being that she was exceedingly popular with the police, rank and file, and had two brothers in it. “Well, what about Ben Halse, and where had they seen him?”“At his own shop.”“Who were they?”“I’m not sure. Meyrick, I think, was one.”“Well, if it’s true it’ll save you a journey, Mr Denham,” she said.“I’ll hold on here for a day or two, then, and see. I’m in no violent hurry.”He was inclined to do this in any case. There was a homelike friendliness about these people among whom he had dropped only the night before, which very much appealed to him. Eight or ten of them would gather at table three times a day, and there was not one among them with whom he had not some idea in common. Most of them, too, had been in the country for years, and he had sat quite late into the previous night listening to some of their experiences—experiences narrated with no tom-fool idea of “cramming” a stranger, but, if anything, set in rather too matter-of-fact a frame, at least so it had struck him. And in the said capacity of stranger each and all had laid themselves out to show him courtesy.Breakfast over, the other boarders went off to their respective avocations, and Denham, lighting a cigar, strolled outside. It was a perfect morning. The sky was a vivid, unclouded blue, the sun, though hot, was not oppressive, and there was just sufficient stirring of the air to make against sultriness. At the back, dropping abruptly from the compound itself, was the first of a series of densely forested kloofs, whose tumbled masses of dark foliage seemed to roll like the irregular waves of a sea, and beyond, just glimpsed through the golden haze, a range of green, round-topped hills rose on the skyline. Immediately at hand a non-indigenous profusion of trees and hedges, giving bosky shade to the snug bungalows and official buildings which constituted the township.Denham, strolling leisurely up and down the broad, clean-swept garden path flanked by its red lines of Jerusalem thorn, was inclined to think that his lines had fallen in pleasant places. Over and above the beauty of the surroundings and the exhilaration of the clear and ambient air his naturalist soul had already begun to find interest in the unfamiliar birds and insects, which fluttered or crept. Bright butterflies alighting coquettishly upon the rose-blooms, the clumsy “whirr” of some ungainly beetle, winging blindly for nowhere in particular, all these were strange to him, and opened out a vista of boundless interest; but what he looked forward to was getting farther into the haunts of strange birds and beasts. He felt light-hearted as a school-boy just escaped for his holidays, lighter-hearted than he had felt for years.A strange insect motionless upon a rose-stem attracted his attention. Deftly he captured it by the back of the neck, and holding it lightly but firmly proceeded to examine it. The stick-like joints jerked and struggled slightly, but on the whole the captive seemed to accept the situation with philosophy. So absorbed was he in the examination of the “specimen” that the steps of his hostess, tripping down the garden path behind him, were unheard.“Beetle-catching, Mr Denham?” she laughed, becoming alive to his present occupation. “What have you got there?”“It isn’t a beetle. It’s a fine specimen of the ‘praying’ amantis. They are the most hypocritical scoundrels in the insect world. They stand for hours motionless in an attitude of intense prayer, ready to grab the first butterfly or anything else that comes in reach.”“Ugh, I don’t like crawling things,” she laughed. “But I suppose you collect them, do you?”“Yes; but I shan’t keep this one,” replacing it upon its stalk, where it at once resumed position as if it had never been disturbed. “Why, you do look workman-like,” as he took in the kind of long, artist blouse which she had got on over her dress. “As to which I couldn’t help admiring your energy—here, there and everywhere—while taking my own lazy stroll.”She laughed again. “You have to be, if you want to keep a place like this on the go.”“Well, I must say, as far as I’ve seen, the result is a success.”“Oh, thanks. Well, if you’re not always looking after these boys they’ll shirk. You don’t know what Kafirs are, Mr Denham.”“Not yet. I doubtless shall—in time.”“Are you out here for long, then?”“Well, that depends. In fact, I don’t know what it depends on,” he added, with a laugh.“That’s fortunate. It must be jolly to be able to go about as you like. Wouldn’tIlike it! But what I came out to tell you was that Inspector James sent round to say that he’ll put you up at the club as an honorary member if you’ll meet him there at twelve. You were talking about it this morning, weren’t you?”“Yes; that’ll be very kind of him. I’ll be there. Where is it, by the bye?”“Right opposite the Court House. Any one will tell you. It’s only a small affair, of course, but you’ll meet every one there, and it’s handy if you’re here for a few days to have somewhere to turn into and see the papers. Well, you must excuse me, I’ve got lots more to do this morning.” And she left him.Denham, going forth presently, could hardly realise, as he strolled along the broad macadamised road fringed by tall eucalyptus-trees and high hedges, through which were glimpsed snug bungalows embedded in flowering gardens, that this was in the heart of what he had always supposed to be a savage country. Yet in even his brief experience he had had opportunity of knowing that in parts still it could be a very savage country indeed. A gang of native convicts, in their white prison dress—undisfigured, however, by the abominable broad arrow—passed him, in charge of three or four native constables; the latter, stalwart fellows in their smart uniforms of dark blue and red, each with a pair of handcuffs in his belt and armed with very business-like assegais. These saluted him as they passed. Then one or two groups of native women, mostly with bundles on their heads. These did not salute him.This was obviously the Court House. He had time to spare, so decided to investigate it. Several natives, squatted outside, gazed curiously at him, but they, too, saluted him. The white man’s rule seemed pretty well established here at any rate, he thought; in which connection he also thought of a strange experience or two of his own in this very country, which contrasted with this show of law and order.The rather bare room seemed dim and cool in contrast to the glare outside. The magistrate looked up, and seeing a stranger, courteously signalled him where to find a seat. There were only trivial cases that morning, and except the court officials Denham was the only white man there. A few natives at the back of the room stood listening to the proceedings! or not finding these interesting enough crept noiselessly out. Denham, to kill time, followed the evidence as it was interpreted by the clerk, and heard the prisoner fined for not paying his dog tax, and the succeeding one sent to gaol for deferred payment of his hut tax, and metaphorically rubbed his eyes. Here was the white man’s rule with a vengeance. Witness box and dock, gaol and fine, where a few years back, comparatively speaking, the spear-and-shield armed impis swept, in all the bravery of their war array. A touch on the shoulder interrupted his meditations. Looking up he beheld Inspector James.“Didn’t find you at the club,” whispered, the latter. “Shall we go over now?”“It’s a curious contrast,” began Denham, when they got outside, “all this law and order in a country with the traditions of this one.”“Well, it’s an improvement for these devils, anyhow,” was the answer. “Where we fine them a pound or so Cetywayo would have had them knocked on the head, and I’m not sure his way of doing things wasn’t the best.”“You don’t like them, then. Now it struck me some of these chaps with the head-rings on were rather fine-looking fellows.”“Damned scoundrels, if you only knew as much about them as we do!” was the somewhat sour reply.“They seem civil enough, anyhow.”“Just here they are, because they’ve got to be. But they are not everywhere. In fact, they are getting more cheeky every day. It’s just possible you may have come up here in time to see some ‘scrapping’.”“Well, I’ll take a hand if there’s any going. What’s up?”Inspector James had suddenly stopped. A Zulu was approaching them down the road, a tall man, ringed, and clad in a long overcoat.“There’s one I’d like to have by the heels,” he said. “He’s up to no good, I can tell you.”The man saluted as he passed them, and then astonishment was in store for Denham. To new arrivals the faces of natives are very much alike, but the face of this one he had good reason to remember. He knew, too, that the recognition was mutual.“Who is he, then?” he asked.“Oh, he’s a sweep from Makanya way; but we’ve got an eye on him.”“I mustn’t try and get behind police secrets,” laughed Denham. But the sight of that particular native set him thinking. Among other things he had reason to think that the Inspector’s estimate was very likely a correct one.The Ezulwini Club was somewhat primitive, consisting of a corrugated iron building containing three rooms, the smallest and most important of which was the bar. Here they found two or three other members to whom Denham was duly introduced, and the usual libations were poured out. At this stage the door was darkened, and a tall man entered.“Hallo! Blest if it isn’t Halse. How are you, Halse?”“How’s yourself, Starmer? And you, James?” and there was general handshaking all round. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he went on, as Denham’s introduction was effected. Then, to the native bar-tender, “Mabule. Set ’em up again. Here’s luck.”“He’s staying at our shop, Halse,” said James, “so you’ll be able to-stroll back together. I shall have to be a bit late, I’m afraid. So long.”“Well, it’s time we did stroll back, then,” said Halse, looking at the clock. “I just thought I’d drop in and see who was alive or dead. Ready, Mr Denham?”“Quite.”“I was a good bit surprised to get your letter saying you were actually here,” began Ben Halse, when they were outside. “I’m rather of a cautious disposition—suspicious, some folks call it, but it’s the upshot of experience, so I avoided any reference to our ever having heard of each other before.”“I’m afraid I’ve given the show away, then, Mr Halse, for only this morning I was asking them at the hotel where you were to be found.”“Ah, well; it can’t be helped. Besides, it doesn’t greatly matter.”Denham had been sizing up this new—yet not new—acquaintance, and the process took no time at all. His impression, at first sight, was altogether a favourable one. They had been in correspondence together—had done business together—for quite a long time, and often had he speculated as to the up-country trader’s individual personality. One thing was certain—the man beside him had always been as straightforward, in all their dealings, as any one could be.“I’ve got a rare record head for you now, Mr Denham,” went on Ben Halse. “A koodoo bull. Just as I’d got it, I got your letter, saying you were here. I thought I’d drive in, and if you care to come and stay out at my place a bit I’m sure you’d find a lot to interest you. It’s precious wild and also a bit rough, but if you can put up with that, you’re very welcome. By the way, don’t say a word to any one here or anywhere else about the head. The Lumisana’s a royal preserve, and there’s a hundred pound fine for shooting anything there without a permit.”“By Jove! is there?” answered Denham, his interest kindling. “I’ll keep dark, never fear. I shall be delighted, though, to take up your invite. Here we are at the Nodwengu.”“Amakosi!”It was the same Zulu Denham had noticed when with Inspector James. Him Halse now stopped, and began conversing fluently in his own tongue.“You’ll have to pick up the lingo, Mr Denham,” he said, as the man went on. “You’ll find it mighty useful.”“And mighty difficult, I expect,” laughed the other.In the verandah of the hotel a girl was standing. Denham looked at her with furtive interest. He had certainly not seen her there since his arrival.“This is my daughter, Mr Denham,” said his companion.“How do you do, Mr Denham?” she said, putting forth a hand. “I seem more than half to know you already through the post.”Such a straight, frank, welcoming hand-clasp; such a straight, frank glance of the hazel eyes. Denham acknowledged the introduction with outward composure, but inwardly he was perturbed. What a splendid girl! he was thinking. He had no idea that Ben Halse owned a daughter; in fact, had never given a thought to anything of the kind. And then the trader’s cordial invitation seemed to take on an entirely new aspect. If his first impressions of the father had been entirely favourable, precisely the same held good with regard to the daughter.

“I suppose you couldn’t tell me where to find a man named Halse, could you, Mrs Shelford? He lives somewhere in this country.”

The pretty and popular hostess of the Nodwengu Hotel at Ezulwini looked up quickly from her plate. So did several others seated at table.

“Yes,” she answered, a little surprised. “Do you know him, then, Mr Denham?”

“Well, in a sort of a way,” was the answer. “That is, I’ve heard a good deal about him, and was rather interested to make his acquaintance.”

Now the expression “heard a good deal about him” raised a covert smile on more than one face round the table.

“Ben Halse lives up in the Lumisana district,” answered the hostess. “But it’s an out-of-the-way place, and not easily got at.”

“All the better. I like out-of-the-way places. They’re so jolly interesting. That’s why I pricked out a cross-country course here.”

The speaker was a tall man, broad-shouldered and well set up, with a square, intellectual head; fair, clear-eyed and self-possessed, and might have been in the late thirties, i.e. in his very prime. He had arrived at Ezulwini the evening before, on horseback, and his baggage for the present consisted of what that unreliable animal could carry strapped across the saddle.

“By the way,” said another man at the table, “I heard something about Ben Halse being due here just about now. Heard anything about it, Mrs Shelford?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he’s going to the opposition shop,” said the other mischievously.

“He can if he likes,” was the crisp retort. “Only Ben Halse and ourselves have known each other all our lives, so I don’t think there’s much fun in that remark.”

“That’s all there was in it, anyhow,” was the answer. “Now I think of it the report came through some of the police.”

“Now, Mrs Shelford, you mustn’t say it,” cut in another man, in mock warning, he, incidentally, holding rank as Inspector in that useful corps.

“Say what?”

“That they are always ‘talking through their necks.’”

“Wait till I do,” she retorted, with a laugh, the fact being that she was exceedingly popular with the police, rank and file, and had two brothers in it. “Well, what about Ben Halse, and where had they seen him?”

“At his own shop.”

“Who were they?”

“I’m not sure. Meyrick, I think, was one.”

“Well, if it’s true it’ll save you a journey, Mr Denham,” she said.

“I’ll hold on here for a day or two, then, and see. I’m in no violent hurry.”

He was inclined to do this in any case. There was a homelike friendliness about these people among whom he had dropped only the night before, which very much appealed to him. Eight or ten of them would gather at table three times a day, and there was not one among them with whom he had not some idea in common. Most of them, too, had been in the country for years, and he had sat quite late into the previous night listening to some of their experiences—experiences narrated with no tom-fool idea of “cramming” a stranger, but, if anything, set in rather too matter-of-fact a frame, at least so it had struck him. And in the said capacity of stranger each and all had laid themselves out to show him courtesy.

Breakfast over, the other boarders went off to their respective avocations, and Denham, lighting a cigar, strolled outside. It was a perfect morning. The sky was a vivid, unclouded blue, the sun, though hot, was not oppressive, and there was just sufficient stirring of the air to make against sultriness. At the back, dropping abruptly from the compound itself, was the first of a series of densely forested kloofs, whose tumbled masses of dark foliage seemed to roll like the irregular waves of a sea, and beyond, just glimpsed through the golden haze, a range of green, round-topped hills rose on the skyline. Immediately at hand a non-indigenous profusion of trees and hedges, giving bosky shade to the snug bungalows and official buildings which constituted the township.

Denham, strolling leisurely up and down the broad, clean-swept garden path flanked by its red lines of Jerusalem thorn, was inclined to think that his lines had fallen in pleasant places. Over and above the beauty of the surroundings and the exhilaration of the clear and ambient air his naturalist soul had already begun to find interest in the unfamiliar birds and insects, which fluttered or crept. Bright butterflies alighting coquettishly upon the rose-blooms, the clumsy “whirr” of some ungainly beetle, winging blindly for nowhere in particular, all these were strange to him, and opened out a vista of boundless interest; but what he looked forward to was getting farther into the haunts of strange birds and beasts. He felt light-hearted as a school-boy just escaped for his holidays, lighter-hearted than he had felt for years.

A strange insect motionless upon a rose-stem attracted his attention. Deftly he captured it by the back of the neck, and holding it lightly but firmly proceeded to examine it. The stick-like joints jerked and struggled slightly, but on the whole the captive seemed to accept the situation with philosophy. So absorbed was he in the examination of the “specimen” that the steps of his hostess, tripping down the garden path behind him, were unheard.

“Beetle-catching, Mr Denham?” she laughed, becoming alive to his present occupation. “What have you got there?”

“It isn’t a beetle. It’s a fine specimen of the ‘praying’ amantis. They are the most hypocritical scoundrels in the insect world. They stand for hours motionless in an attitude of intense prayer, ready to grab the first butterfly or anything else that comes in reach.”

“Ugh, I don’t like crawling things,” she laughed. “But I suppose you collect them, do you?”

“Yes; but I shan’t keep this one,” replacing it upon its stalk, where it at once resumed position as if it had never been disturbed. “Why, you do look workman-like,” as he took in the kind of long, artist blouse which she had got on over her dress. “As to which I couldn’t help admiring your energy—here, there and everywhere—while taking my own lazy stroll.”

She laughed again. “You have to be, if you want to keep a place like this on the go.”

“Well, I must say, as far as I’ve seen, the result is a success.”

“Oh, thanks. Well, if you’re not always looking after these boys they’ll shirk. You don’t know what Kafirs are, Mr Denham.”

“Not yet. I doubtless shall—in time.”

“Are you out here for long, then?”

“Well, that depends. In fact, I don’t know what it depends on,” he added, with a laugh.

“That’s fortunate. It must be jolly to be able to go about as you like. Wouldn’tIlike it! But what I came out to tell you was that Inspector James sent round to say that he’ll put you up at the club as an honorary member if you’ll meet him there at twelve. You were talking about it this morning, weren’t you?”

“Yes; that’ll be very kind of him. I’ll be there. Where is it, by the bye?”

“Right opposite the Court House. Any one will tell you. It’s only a small affair, of course, but you’ll meet every one there, and it’s handy if you’re here for a few days to have somewhere to turn into and see the papers. Well, you must excuse me, I’ve got lots more to do this morning.” And she left him.

Denham, going forth presently, could hardly realise, as he strolled along the broad macadamised road fringed by tall eucalyptus-trees and high hedges, through which were glimpsed snug bungalows embedded in flowering gardens, that this was in the heart of what he had always supposed to be a savage country. Yet in even his brief experience he had had opportunity of knowing that in parts still it could be a very savage country indeed. A gang of native convicts, in their white prison dress—undisfigured, however, by the abominable broad arrow—passed him, in charge of three or four native constables; the latter, stalwart fellows in their smart uniforms of dark blue and red, each with a pair of handcuffs in his belt and armed with very business-like assegais. These saluted him as they passed. Then one or two groups of native women, mostly with bundles on their heads. These did not salute him.

This was obviously the Court House. He had time to spare, so decided to investigate it. Several natives, squatted outside, gazed curiously at him, but they, too, saluted him. The white man’s rule seemed pretty well established here at any rate, he thought; in which connection he also thought of a strange experience or two of his own in this very country, which contrasted with this show of law and order.

The rather bare room seemed dim and cool in contrast to the glare outside. The magistrate looked up, and seeing a stranger, courteously signalled him where to find a seat. There were only trivial cases that morning, and except the court officials Denham was the only white man there. A few natives at the back of the room stood listening to the proceedings! or not finding these interesting enough crept noiselessly out. Denham, to kill time, followed the evidence as it was interpreted by the clerk, and heard the prisoner fined for not paying his dog tax, and the succeeding one sent to gaol for deferred payment of his hut tax, and metaphorically rubbed his eyes. Here was the white man’s rule with a vengeance. Witness box and dock, gaol and fine, where a few years back, comparatively speaking, the spear-and-shield armed impis swept, in all the bravery of their war array. A touch on the shoulder interrupted his meditations. Looking up he beheld Inspector James.

“Didn’t find you at the club,” whispered, the latter. “Shall we go over now?”

“It’s a curious contrast,” began Denham, when they got outside, “all this law and order in a country with the traditions of this one.”

“Well, it’s an improvement for these devils, anyhow,” was the answer. “Where we fine them a pound or so Cetywayo would have had them knocked on the head, and I’m not sure his way of doing things wasn’t the best.”

“You don’t like them, then. Now it struck me some of these chaps with the head-rings on were rather fine-looking fellows.”

“Damned scoundrels, if you only knew as much about them as we do!” was the somewhat sour reply.

“They seem civil enough, anyhow.”

“Just here they are, because they’ve got to be. But they are not everywhere. In fact, they are getting more cheeky every day. It’s just possible you may have come up here in time to see some ‘scrapping’.”

“Well, I’ll take a hand if there’s any going. What’s up?”

Inspector James had suddenly stopped. A Zulu was approaching them down the road, a tall man, ringed, and clad in a long overcoat.

“There’s one I’d like to have by the heels,” he said. “He’s up to no good, I can tell you.”

The man saluted as he passed them, and then astonishment was in store for Denham. To new arrivals the faces of natives are very much alike, but the face of this one he had good reason to remember. He knew, too, that the recognition was mutual.

“Who is he, then?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s a sweep from Makanya way; but we’ve got an eye on him.”

“I mustn’t try and get behind police secrets,” laughed Denham. But the sight of that particular native set him thinking. Among other things he had reason to think that the Inspector’s estimate was very likely a correct one.

The Ezulwini Club was somewhat primitive, consisting of a corrugated iron building containing three rooms, the smallest and most important of which was the bar. Here they found two or three other members to whom Denham was duly introduced, and the usual libations were poured out. At this stage the door was darkened, and a tall man entered.

“Hallo! Blest if it isn’t Halse. How are you, Halse?”

“How’s yourself, Starmer? And you, James?” and there was general handshaking all round. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he went on, as Denham’s introduction was effected. Then, to the native bar-tender, “Mabule. Set ’em up again. Here’s luck.”

“He’s staying at our shop, Halse,” said James, “so you’ll be able to-stroll back together. I shall have to be a bit late, I’m afraid. So long.”

“Well, it’s time we did stroll back, then,” said Halse, looking at the clock. “I just thought I’d drop in and see who was alive or dead. Ready, Mr Denham?”

“Quite.”

“I was a good bit surprised to get your letter saying you were actually here,” began Ben Halse, when they were outside. “I’m rather of a cautious disposition—suspicious, some folks call it, but it’s the upshot of experience, so I avoided any reference to our ever having heard of each other before.”

“I’m afraid I’ve given the show away, then, Mr Halse, for only this morning I was asking them at the hotel where you were to be found.”

“Ah, well; it can’t be helped. Besides, it doesn’t greatly matter.”

Denham had been sizing up this new—yet not new—acquaintance, and the process took no time at all. His impression, at first sight, was altogether a favourable one. They had been in correspondence together—had done business together—for quite a long time, and often had he speculated as to the up-country trader’s individual personality. One thing was certain—the man beside him had always been as straightforward, in all their dealings, as any one could be.

“I’ve got a rare record head for you now, Mr Denham,” went on Ben Halse. “A koodoo bull. Just as I’d got it, I got your letter, saying you were here. I thought I’d drive in, and if you care to come and stay out at my place a bit I’m sure you’d find a lot to interest you. It’s precious wild and also a bit rough, but if you can put up with that, you’re very welcome. By the way, don’t say a word to any one here or anywhere else about the head. The Lumisana’s a royal preserve, and there’s a hundred pound fine for shooting anything there without a permit.”

“By Jove! is there?” answered Denham, his interest kindling. “I’ll keep dark, never fear. I shall be delighted, though, to take up your invite. Here we are at the Nodwengu.”

“Amakosi!”

It was the same Zulu Denham had noticed when with Inspector James. Him Halse now stopped, and began conversing fluently in his own tongue.

“You’ll have to pick up the lingo, Mr Denham,” he said, as the man went on. “You’ll find it mighty useful.”

“And mighty difficult, I expect,” laughed the other.

In the verandah of the hotel a girl was standing. Denham looked at her with furtive interest. He had certainly not seen her there since his arrival.

“This is my daughter, Mr Denham,” said his companion.

“How do you do, Mr Denham?” she said, putting forth a hand. “I seem more than half to know you already through the post.”

Such a straight, frank, welcoming hand-clasp; such a straight, frank glance of the hazel eyes. Denham acknowledged the introduction with outward composure, but inwardly he was perturbed. What a splendid girl! he was thinking. He had no idea that Ben Halse owned a daughter; in fact, had never given a thought to anything of the kind. And then the trader’s cordial invitation seemed to take on an entirely new aspect. If his first impressions of the father had been entirely favourable, precisely the same held good with regard to the daughter.

Chapter Ten.Impressions.If Denham’s impressions had been thus with regard to Verna, hers had been the same with regard to himself. She had seen him first, as he came up the garden path with her father, and the tall, fine figure, and clean-cut face had taken her imagination at once. She remembered, only the other day, asking her father what sort of man this would be likely to be, never expecting to set eyes on him, and now here he was.“Got any room at the bigger table, Emmie?” said Ben Halse, as they went in. He had known the hostess of the Nodwengu—herself the daughter of a fine old up-country trader and pioneer—ever since she was born. “I like being among folks when I break away, which isn’t often.”“Plenty. We’re anything but full now, worse luck. Here, next me. Verna, you sit there.”“There” meant next Denham, an arrangement of which the latter thoroughly approved. “Verna!” So that was her name, he thought. It sounded pretty, and seemed to suit her.“You’ve only just arrived, I hear, Mr Denham,” she began. “Well, I’m not going to ask you what you think of this country, because you haven’t had time to form an opinion.”“I like what I’ve seen of it,” he answered. “Ezulwini seems a delightful spot.”“Mr Denham collects butterflies and beetles, and all sorts of things,” struck in Mrs Shelford. “I came upon him this morning with a horrid leggy thing he’d just caught. What was it, Mr Denham? A praying—praying—something?”“Amantis.”“Yes. He’ll be catching snails next.”“Shouldn’t wonder, Mrs Shelford. I’m keen on capturing the skin of theindhlondhlo.”“He’s jolly rare,” said Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes. “We might find one up my way, but it isn’t certain.”“What did you call that snake, Mr Denham?” said Verna.He repeated the word. Then, as something struck him—“Now that’s not fair, Miss Halse. Remember I’ve only been in the country a few days.”“Why? What? Oh, I see. No, really, I wasn’t making fun of the way you said it; on the contrary, you pronounced it so well I wanted to hear it again to make sure. Aren’t I right, father?”“Right—as usual. But joking apart, I noticed the same thing. You’ll have to learn the lingo, Mr Denham, as I said.”“I’ll try. By the way, what’s the meaning of the name of this place—Ezulwini?”“In the heavens,” answered Verna. “Pretty name, isn’t it? It was named after the kraal of an old-time chief which stood on its site.”“Why, yes. It’s rather good,” said Denham. “It’s much better to stick to the old native names instead of inventing British and new ones.”“I agree with you. But the worst of it is there are so few that the British tongue can get round,” said Verna. “That makes rather a difficulty at a railway booking-office, for instance, when you have a newly-imported Britisher issuing tickets.”“Such as myself,” laughed Denham.“I didn’t know you issued tickets,” rejoined the girl mischievously.“But the newly-imported Britisher!”“Well, yes. I suppose you are that. But it isn’t incurable.”There was a laugh at this. Denham was delighted. There was something about the girl at his side that was infinitely taking. She, for her part, talked on and talked well. How had she acquired the art, he marvelled, spending life in a place which her father had described as “precious wild.” But perhaps she had been home to England for educational purposes. But to a question to that effect Verna promptly replied in the negative. She had once been to Johannesburg, and that not for long; beyond that she had never been outside Zululand and Natal.“I am utterly uneducated, you know,” she added frankly, but with the most taking smile.“You don’t expect me to take that seriously, Miss Halse?” said Denham.“Well, it’s true.”He shook his head, of course unconvinced. In rough and out-of-the-way parts a girl might suffer from want of educational opportunities, but this one had not. Her speaking voice was refined and her grammar flawless. Perhaps she had a clever and refined mother, he thought. And then it occurred to him for the first time that he was in entire ignorance as to what Ben Halse’s household consisted of. He had made no inquiries on the subject, and now he was going to be a temporary member of it.“You won’t believe what I say?” she went on mischievously.“No.”“All right, you’ll see. Just get me on to Shakespeare and Byron, or is it Bacon? and all that lot that you learned people like talking about, and then you’ll see where I don’t come in.”Denham was more and more delighted. There was such a charming frankness about this daughter of the wilderness that was clean outside all his experience. There was no affectation about it either. At the same time he could see that this was no ordinary type of womanhood. She had character, and plenty of it. Here was an object of interest—of vivid interest—he had by no means bargained for.“But I’m not a ‘learned’ person, Miss Halse,” he answered, with a laugh. “Anything but. I like collecting things. That’s all.”“Mr Denham’s coming up to stay with us a bit, Verna,” said Ben Halse. “He’ll be able to ‘collect things’ there to the top of his bent.”“Are you, really? Oh, that’ll be delightful,” she said, turning upon Denham a sparkling, pleased face. “We can take you where you can find everything that creeps, or flies, or runs, down in the Lumisana forest.”“That’ll be more than good. I shall enjoy it above all things,” he rejoined. “I suppose you are a good bit of a sportsman yourself, Miss Halse? Shoot and all that?”“Oh, I haven’t always time,” she answered. “What with running the house and looking after things, and helping father in the store—that takes some time and patience, I can tell you. The people in these days have got so civilised and thoroughly understand the value of money, why, they’ll haggle for half-an-hour over anything, from a striped skirt to a packet of snuff.”“Will they?” said Denham, more interested than ever. This girl—this splendid-looking girl with the fine presence and striking personality—sold striped skirts and packets of snuff to natives, and, moreover, had not the slightest hesitation in volunteering the fact. More and more did she rise in his estimation.“Miss Halse nearly shot a Kafir once in that same store, Mr Denham,” struck in the hostess, who, while talking to the trader, had taken in the other conversation.“Not really?”“Oh, it was nothing,” explained Verna. “A man came in once to trade—not one of our people, but a stranger. I was alone and he got impudent, not merely impudent, but violent, began to throw things about, and all that. So I just gave him a scare shot, you know, a shot that shaved him near enough to scare him badly. I let him know that the next one would be nearer still and that I had five more. Then he subsided and became civil. But—it was nothing.”“Well done! Well done!” cried Denham. “I suppose in those wild parts you have to know how to take care of yourself.” He had noticed, too, that there was no trace of brag in her narrative: it was utterly matter-of-fact.“I’ve never known any trouble with our people, and I’ve been among them the best part of my life,” she answered. “This one was a stranger.”“How d’you do, Miss Halse,” said Inspector James, who entered at that moment, “I thought your father wouldn’t have left you behind. Well, Halse, I knew I’d be late, and I am. It’s precious hot, though. What’s the latest?”“Latest? I came here to hear the latest,” answered Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes.“Oh, of course. If you didn’t know what was going on before we did I’d be—well, astonished.”“No, there’s noindaba—none fresh, that is, and what there is you know as well as I do, James.”“Oh, those brutes are hatching no more mischief than usual,” grumbled the latter, who was hot and tired. “How’s your friend Sapazani, Halse?”“Same as before. I’m going to have another drink, James. You cut in—you, Mr Denham?”“Don’t mind. That sweep’s not trustworthy,” answered James, meaning not Denham but Sapazani.“Is any one on this earth?” returned Ben Halse, while Verna remarked sweetly—“Sapazani is a great friend of ours, Mr James.”Denham, the while, listened amused, but said nothing.“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Halse,” answered the Inspector. “Meanwhile, it’s a great thing to know who one’s friends are.”“Who is Sapazani?” asked Denham, after a little more discussion.“He’s our chief—I mean the big chief near us,” explained Verna. “We’ll introduce him to you when you come.”The police officer was a trifle surprised. Denham was going to stay with the Halses, then! Now who the deuce could this Denham be? he began to wonder. There had been dark suspicions of gun-running in the part inhabited by Sapazani’s tribe, and now here was a stranger, about whom nobody knew anything at all, going on a visit to Ben Halse. Then it occurred to him that the said stranger had arrived unexpectedly at Ezulwini, not by the usual road and in the usual way, but alone, on horseback, from a different direction and through some of the most disaffected and out-of-the-way parts of the country. It also occurred to him that the said stranger’s previous movements might bear some looking into.“Well, I shall leave you to take away poor Sapazani’s character together,” said Verna presently, rising from the table—the hostess had already retired.“Going to have forty winks, Miss Halse?” laughed James.“Perhaps.”The men sat on for a little while longer, then the Inspector left them to return to his work. Ben Halse and Denham adjourned to the verandah to smoke another pipe or so.“I’m glad you’ve found your way out here,” said the former. “We’ve done business together for quite a time, and it seems as if we ought to know each other.”“And very satisfactory business it has been to me, Mr Halse—”“Glad to hear you say so. Yes, go on. I interrupted you. I’m sorry.”“Oh, not at all. Well, what I was going to say is this: I trust we shall continue it on the same satisfactory terms—er—I mean—of course it is most kind of you to offer me hospitality, and I assure you I look forward to my visit with keen pleasure. But you will understand that anything rare you may obtain for me in the way of specimens while I am with you, is obtained on exactly the same terms as before. You don’t mind?”We have somewhat emphasised the fact that Ben Halse was fond of money, but also that there was no sort of meanness about him. He had a code of his own. Moreover, he had taken a very great liking, at first sight, to the man beside him.“I don’t mind, Mr Denham,” he answered. “But I don’t think I’ll agree. While you are my guest we won’t go on the business tack over any thing.”“Now you don’t want to cut my visit short, do you?” said the other, with a pleasant laugh.“Certainly not. But this time you must let me have my own way. We haven’t known each other long, Mr Denham, but I don’t mind telling you there are people in these parts who say things about me; but whatever they say, there is one thing they are bound to say—unless they are liars—and that is that I have my ideas of what’s what, and I stick to them.”“Very well, then, Mr Halse. You shall have your way, and I assure you I am looking forward to an altogether new and delightful experience.”Then they talked on about veldt-craft and forest-craft, eventually coming round to the record koodoo head, which Denham was dying to see.“Verna shot it,” said Ben Halse, somewhat lowering his voice. “As neat and clean a shot as ever was delivered.”“No!” in delighted surprise.“Fact. Verna shot it.”“What did Verna shoot?”Both started at the voice behind them, and turned their heads. The girl stood erect, smiling, in every way winsome and attractive.“You shouldn’t talk so loud, father dear. You’re giving away our secrets to any passer-by. It doesn’t matter about Mr Denham, of course, because he’s in them: an accomplice, an accessary, both before and after the fact—isn’t that the correct expression?”Denham was set wondering. “An accessary, both before and after the fact,” he repeated to himself. And this was the girl who had described herself as “utterly uneducated.”“I’m going for a stroll,” she went on. “Will you come, father?”“I think not, dear. I promised to meet one or two of them at the club about now.”“All right.”Denham started up, with an abruptness somewhat unusual in him.“Might I accompany you, Miss Halse?” he said, as she was turning away.“I shall be delighted,” she answered, flashing a smile at him, “We’ll go down through the bush—they’ve cut out some paths through it, and it’s lovely down there. We can come out again just below the Nongqai barracks. That’ll make just a nice round. So long, father.”Ben Halse sat back in his chair, watching them down the garden path.“They look well together. A fine pair, by Jove!” Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and again he ejaculated to himself with emphasis, “A fine pair, by Jove!”

If Denham’s impressions had been thus with regard to Verna, hers had been the same with regard to himself. She had seen him first, as he came up the garden path with her father, and the tall, fine figure, and clean-cut face had taken her imagination at once. She remembered, only the other day, asking her father what sort of man this would be likely to be, never expecting to set eyes on him, and now here he was.

“Got any room at the bigger table, Emmie?” said Ben Halse, as they went in. He had known the hostess of the Nodwengu—herself the daughter of a fine old up-country trader and pioneer—ever since she was born. “I like being among folks when I break away, which isn’t often.”

“Plenty. We’re anything but full now, worse luck. Here, next me. Verna, you sit there.”

“There” meant next Denham, an arrangement of which the latter thoroughly approved. “Verna!” So that was her name, he thought. It sounded pretty, and seemed to suit her.

“You’ve only just arrived, I hear, Mr Denham,” she began. “Well, I’m not going to ask you what you think of this country, because you haven’t had time to form an opinion.”

“I like what I’ve seen of it,” he answered. “Ezulwini seems a delightful spot.”

“Mr Denham collects butterflies and beetles, and all sorts of things,” struck in Mrs Shelford. “I came upon him this morning with a horrid leggy thing he’d just caught. What was it, Mr Denham? A praying—praying—something?”

“Amantis.”

“Yes. He’ll be catching snails next.”

“Shouldn’t wonder, Mrs Shelford. I’m keen on capturing the skin of theindhlondhlo.”

“He’s jolly rare,” said Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes. “We might find one up my way, but it isn’t certain.”

“What did you call that snake, Mr Denham?” said Verna.

He repeated the word. Then, as something struck him—

“Now that’s not fair, Miss Halse. Remember I’ve only been in the country a few days.”

“Why? What? Oh, I see. No, really, I wasn’t making fun of the way you said it; on the contrary, you pronounced it so well I wanted to hear it again to make sure. Aren’t I right, father?”

“Right—as usual. But joking apart, I noticed the same thing. You’ll have to learn the lingo, Mr Denham, as I said.”

“I’ll try. By the way, what’s the meaning of the name of this place—Ezulwini?”

“In the heavens,” answered Verna. “Pretty name, isn’t it? It was named after the kraal of an old-time chief which stood on its site.”

“Why, yes. It’s rather good,” said Denham. “It’s much better to stick to the old native names instead of inventing British and new ones.”

“I agree with you. But the worst of it is there are so few that the British tongue can get round,” said Verna. “That makes rather a difficulty at a railway booking-office, for instance, when you have a newly-imported Britisher issuing tickets.”

“Such as myself,” laughed Denham.

“I didn’t know you issued tickets,” rejoined the girl mischievously.

“But the newly-imported Britisher!”

“Well, yes. I suppose you are that. But it isn’t incurable.”

There was a laugh at this. Denham was delighted. There was something about the girl at his side that was infinitely taking. She, for her part, talked on and talked well. How had she acquired the art, he marvelled, spending life in a place which her father had described as “precious wild.” But perhaps she had been home to England for educational purposes. But to a question to that effect Verna promptly replied in the negative. She had once been to Johannesburg, and that not for long; beyond that she had never been outside Zululand and Natal.

“I am utterly uneducated, you know,” she added frankly, but with the most taking smile.

“You don’t expect me to take that seriously, Miss Halse?” said Denham.

“Well, it’s true.”

He shook his head, of course unconvinced. In rough and out-of-the-way parts a girl might suffer from want of educational opportunities, but this one had not. Her speaking voice was refined and her grammar flawless. Perhaps she had a clever and refined mother, he thought. And then it occurred to him for the first time that he was in entire ignorance as to what Ben Halse’s household consisted of. He had made no inquiries on the subject, and now he was going to be a temporary member of it.

“You won’t believe what I say?” she went on mischievously.

“No.”

“All right, you’ll see. Just get me on to Shakespeare and Byron, or is it Bacon? and all that lot that you learned people like talking about, and then you’ll see where I don’t come in.”

Denham was more and more delighted. There was such a charming frankness about this daughter of the wilderness that was clean outside all his experience. There was no affectation about it either. At the same time he could see that this was no ordinary type of womanhood. She had character, and plenty of it. Here was an object of interest—of vivid interest—he had by no means bargained for.

“But I’m not a ‘learned’ person, Miss Halse,” he answered, with a laugh. “Anything but. I like collecting things. That’s all.”

“Mr Denham’s coming up to stay with us a bit, Verna,” said Ben Halse. “He’ll be able to ‘collect things’ there to the top of his bent.”

“Are you, really? Oh, that’ll be delightful,” she said, turning upon Denham a sparkling, pleased face. “We can take you where you can find everything that creeps, or flies, or runs, down in the Lumisana forest.”

“That’ll be more than good. I shall enjoy it above all things,” he rejoined. “I suppose you are a good bit of a sportsman yourself, Miss Halse? Shoot and all that?”

“Oh, I haven’t always time,” she answered. “What with running the house and looking after things, and helping father in the store—that takes some time and patience, I can tell you. The people in these days have got so civilised and thoroughly understand the value of money, why, they’ll haggle for half-an-hour over anything, from a striped skirt to a packet of snuff.”

“Will they?” said Denham, more interested than ever. This girl—this splendid-looking girl with the fine presence and striking personality—sold striped skirts and packets of snuff to natives, and, moreover, had not the slightest hesitation in volunteering the fact. More and more did she rise in his estimation.

“Miss Halse nearly shot a Kafir once in that same store, Mr Denham,” struck in the hostess, who, while talking to the trader, had taken in the other conversation.

“Not really?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” explained Verna. “A man came in once to trade—not one of our people, but a stranger. I was alone and he got impudent, not merely impudent, but violent, began to throw things about, and all that. So I just gave him a scare shot, you know, a shot that shaved him near enough to scare him badly. I let him know that the next one would be nearer still and that I had five more. Then he subsided and became civil. But—it was nothing.”

“Well done! Well done!” cried Denham. “I suppose in those wild parts you have to know how to take care of yourself.” He had noticed, too, that there was no trace of brag in her narrative: it was utterly matter-of-fact.

“I’ve never known any trouble with our people, and I’ve been among them the best part of my life,” she answered. “This one was a stranger.”

“How d’you do, Miss Halse,” said Inspector James, who entered at that moment, “I thought your father wouldn’t have left you behind. Well, Halse, I knew I’d be late, and I am. It’s precious hot, though. What’s the latest?”

“Latest? I came here to hear the latest,” answered Ben Halse, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, of course. If you didn’t know what was going on before we did I’d be—well, astonished.”

“No, there’s noindaba—none fresh, that is, and what there is you know as well as I do, James.”

“Oh, those brutes are hatching no more mischief than usual,” grumbled the latter, who was hot and tired. “How’s your friend Sapazani, Halse?”

“Same as before. I’m going to have another drink, James. You cut in—you, Mr Denham?”

“Don’t mind. That sweep’s not trustworthy,” answered James, meaning not Denham but Sapazani.

“Is any one on this earth?” returned Ben Halse, while Verna remarked sweetly—

“Sapazani is a great friend of ours, Mr James.”

Denham, the while, listened amused, but said nothing.

“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Halse,” answered the Inspector. “Meanwhile, it’s a great thing to know who one’s friends are.”

“Who is Sapazani?” asked Denham, after a little more discussion.

“He’s our chief—I mean the big chief near us,” explained Verna. “We’ll introduce him to you when you come.”

The police officer was a trifle surprised. Denham was going to stay with the Halses, then! Now who the deuce could this Denham be? he began to wonder. There had been dark suspicions of gun-running in the part inhabited by Sapazani’s tribe, and now here was a stranger, about whom nobody knew anything at all, going on a visit to Ben Halse. Then it occurred to him that the said stranger had arrived unexpectedly at Ezulwini, not by the usual road and in the usual way, but alone, on horseback, from a different direction and through some of the most disaffected and out-of-the-way parts of the country. It also occurred to him that the said stranger’s previous movements might bear some looking into.

“Well, I shall leave you to take away poor Sapazani’s character together,” said Verna presently, rising from the table—the hostess had already retired.

“Going to have forty winks, Miss Halse?” laughed James.

“Perhaps.”

The men sat on for a little while longer, then the Inspector left them to return to his work. Ben Halse and Denham adjourned to the verandah to smoke another pipe or so.

“I’m glad you’ve found your way out here,” said the former. “We’ve done business together for quite a time, and it seems as if we ought to know each other.”

“And very satisfactory business it has been to me, Mr Halse—”

“Glad to hear you say so. Yes, go on. I interrupted you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not at all. Well, what I was going to say is this: I trust we shall continue it on the same satisfactory terms—er—I mean—of course it is most kind of you to offer me hospitality, and I assure you I look forward to my visit with keen pleasure. But you will understand that anything rare you may obtain for me in the way of specimens while I am with you, is obtained on exactly the same terms as before. You don’t mind?”

We have somewhat emphasised the fact that Ben Halse was fond of money, but also that there was no sort of meanness about him. He had a code of his own. Moreover, he had taken a very great liking, at first sight, to the man beside him.

“I don’t mind, Mr Denham,” he answered. “But I don’t think I’ll agree. While you are my guest we won’t go on the business tack over any thing.”

“Now you don’t want to cut my visit short, do you?” said the other, with a pleasant laugh.

“Certainly not. But this time you must let me have my own way. We haven’t known each other long, Mr Denham, but I don’t mind telling you there are people in these parts who say things about me; but whatever they say, there is one thing they are bound to say—unless they are liars—and that is that I have my ideas of what’s what, and I stick to them.”

“Very well, then, Mr Halse. You shall have your way, and I assure you I am looking forward to an altogether new and delightful experience.”

Then they talked on about veldt-craft and forest-craft, eventually coming round to the record koodoo head, which Denham was dying to see.

“Verna shot it,” said Ben Halse, somewhat lowering his voice. “As neat and clean a shot as ever was delivered.”

“No!” in delighted surprise.

“Fact. Verna shot it.”

“What did Verna shoot?”

Both started at the voice behind them, and turned their heads. The girl stood erect, smiling, in every way winsome and attractive.

“You shouldn’t talk so loud, father dear. You’re giving away our secrets to any passer-by. It doesn’t matter about Mr Denham, of course, because he’s in them: an accomplice, an accessary, both before and after the fact—isn’t that the correct expression?”

Denham was set wondering. “An accessary, both before and after the fact,” he repeated to himself. And this was the girl who had described herself as “utterly uneducated.”

“I’m going for a stroll,” she went on. “Will you come, father?”

“I think not, dear. I promised to meet one or two of them at the club about now.”

“All right.”

Denham started up, with an abruptness somewhat unusual in him.

“Might I accompany you, Miss Halse?” he said, as she was turning away.

“I shall be delighted,” she answered, flashing a smile at him, “We’ll go down through the bush—they’ve cut out some paths through it, and it’s lovely down there. We can come out again just below the Nongqai barracks. That’ll make just a nice round. So long, father.”

Ben Halse sat back in his chair, watching them down the garden path.

“They look well together. A fine pair, by Jove!” Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and again he ejaculated to himself with emphasis, “A fine pair, by Jove!”

Chapter Eleven.Developments.The dictum of Ben Halse with regard to his daughter and their new friend was unconsciously echoed by more than one passer-by, as the two strolled leisurely along the broad road which constituted the main “street” of the township, between its lines of foliage, Verna nodding to an acquaintance here and there. Denham was rather an out-of-the-way kind of stranger to drop suddenly into their midst, and again, he seemed to be “in” with the Halses. Could he be an English relation of theirs? they wondered, for there was an unmistakable “out from home” stamp upon him.“Do you know, you are rather a puzzle to me, Miss Halse,” he suddenly broke out, with regard to nothing in particular.“Am I? In what way?”They had reached one of the winding forest roads which had been artificially cleared, and thus made into delightful drives or walks. High overhead the tall tree-tops met, and in the shade beneath, the gaze, turning to either side, met nothing but actual “forest primeval.”“Why, in this way,” he answered, “Your own surroundings at home, from your account of it and your father’s, must be uncommonly like this; yet when yougethere, among a lot of other people, and houses and gardens and tennis, and all that sort of thing, the first thing you do is to start off for a lonely walk in the forest.”“Lonely walk? But I don’t feel lonely. You—are fairly good company.” And she flashed at him an uncommonly captivating smile.“I? Oh, I am an accident. You would have gone anyhow, with or without me.”With the words something struck him. Was he such an “accident” after all? Denham was not a conceited man, but he was no fool. He was a man of the world, and was perfectly well aware that from a “worldly goods” point of view he would be regarded as a “catch” by most women. Yet somehow, even if the fact of his being here was not accidental, the idea did not displease him—anything but. And he had known his present companion exactly three hours and a half.“I suppose I should,” she answered. “As for the ‘other people,’ I don’t know that I care much about anybody. They’re a very good sort, and we’re civil to each other when we meet, and so on. But that’s about all. I’ve been so much alone, you see.”“You remind me of the standing joke about the London ’bus driver—when he gets a day off he spends it riding about on top of another ’bus as a ‘fare,’ likewise the actor, under similar circumstances, goes to other theatres.”Verna laughed. “Yes, I suppose I’m like that, too. But, do you know, I’m rather energetic—must always be moving.”“So I should judge. It’s lovely here, but these dense growths of vegetation, especially down in a hollow like this, always strike me as miasmatic.”Verna looked surprised.“But this is the first time you have been into—in this country, at any rate.”He smiled. He could have told a different story.“I have been in South America, and the forest belts here are a joke to that. But tell me now about the shooting of the record koodoo. Your father wasn’t joking when he said it was your work?”“No, it’s true.” Then she stopped. A sudden idea had struck her. She did not want to pose as an Amazon before this acquaintance of just three hours and three-quarters. She wished her father had said nothing about it.“Well done. Why, you’re a regular Diana,” said Denham enthusiastically.“A regular what? I told you I was utterly uneducated.”“So you did, and I didn’t believe you, nor do I now. Ladies are not expected to be up in the classics, except the ‘advanced’ ones, and they’re none the better for it. Well, the party I mentioned was a mythical female given to shooting stags with a bow and arrows that wouldn’t damage a mouse—at least that’s how she’s represented in sculpture and painting. Likewise with an incidental cur or two thrown in.”Verna laughed merrily.“Oh, is that it?” she said. “Well, I told you I was an ignoramus.”“Yes; but tell me now about the shooting of the record head.”She told him, told the story graphically and well, but so far as her own part in it was concerned rather diffidently.Denham was interested with a vengeance, and in his own mind could not but draw contrasts. This girl, walking beside him in her neat, tasteful attire, why, they might have been walking on an English country road or in an English park! She would have fitted in equally well there. She might have been giving him an account of some dance or theatrical performance, yet just as naturally did she narrate the midnight poaching expedition and the shooting of the large animal by the light of the moon—by herself. The naturalness of her, too, struck him with astonishment: the utter self-possession, living, as she did, a secluded life.“What are you thinking about?” she said, for he had relapsed into unconscious silence.“About you,” he answered.“About me? I expect I can guess what you were thinking.”“Try.”“Very well. You were thinking: Here’s a boisterous, sporting female, who rides and shoots like a man, and who fires pistol shots at natives when they offend her; and who probably smokes and swears and drinks, into the bargain.”“Go on. Anything else?”“No; that’s enough to go on with.”“All right. I was thinking nothing of the kind. I was thinking of your pluck, for one thing, and your naturalness for another. I was also thinking that we were having an awfully jolly walk.”“Yes, it is jolly, isn’t it?” she answered, with that very “naturalness” that he had applauded. “I’m enjoying it no end. Was that all you were thinking?”“Must I answer that question?”“Certainly.”“I was thinking what a delightful speaking voice yours is. It must be great as a singing one.”A slight flush came over her face.“You must not pay me compliments, Mr Denham. I had a better opinion of you. But I’m not musical at all. I haven’t even got a piano, and if I had I couldn’t play it. ‘Utterly uneducated,’ as I told you.”This was met by the same unbelieving head-shake.“By the way, how many of you are there in the family?” he asked.“You’ve seen all the family. My mother died when I was quite a wee kiddie, so did a brother. I can’t remember either of them. So you see there are only the two of us.”“I suppose you get girl friends to visit you sometimes?”“They’d be bored to death in a week. Besides, I haven’t got any.”“How strange!”“Yes, isn’t it? But then, you see, I’ve never been to school, and am seldom away from home. So I have neither time nor opportunity to make them.”“You are a problem,” he said, looking at her with a strange expression.“Am I? Well, at any rate, now you know what to expect. But I don’t think you’ll get bored, because you have strong interests of your own.”Denham was above uttering such a banality as that he could not get bored if she was there, but he felt it all the same. A problem he had called her. Yes, she was a problem indeed; and he would be surprised if she were not the most interesting one with which he had ever been faced.“Look,” went on Verna, coming to a standstill and pointing with her lightumzimbitiwalking-stick. “That’s not bad for a view.”They had emerged from the forest ravine and now stood on high ground. The plains swept away to a line of round-topped hills, whose slopes were intersected with similar forest-filled ravines to that behind them, making dark stripes upon the bright green of the slope. It was a lovely evening, and the sky was blue and cloudless.“No; it’s beautiful,” he answered. “I came here that way, round the back of that range.”“But that’s the way to Makanya. You didn’t come from Makanya?”“No; I left it on the left. I wanted to find my way across country. All that forest part is splendid, but rough.”“Were you alone?”“Yes, except when I got a native as guide for what looked like some of the most difficult parts.”Verna’s pretty lips emitted a whistle, as she looked at him in astonishment.“You did rather a risky thing,” she said. “The people down there are none too well affected, and it’s hardly safe in these days for a solitary white man in some parts of the country. And the Zulus are not what they used to be. But how did you manage about talking?”“Oh, I had picked up an ordinary word or two, and the potent sign of a half-crown piece did the rest. It was quite interesting as an experience, really.”Verna still looked at him astonished; then she remembered he had said something about South America; still, his undertaking was at that time, as she had said, a risky thing. He, remembering one experience, at any rate, thought she was very likely right.“Well, you mustn’t take any risks when you are with us,” she said.“Why? Are the people your way disaffected, too?”“It isn’t so much that, but you might get lost wandering about by yourself. The forest country is flatter, and there are no landmarks, at any rate, that would be of any use to a stranger.”“Oh, I’m not much afraid of that,” he answered lightly. They had resumed their walk, which lay back through the forest by a different way, chatting freely about anything and everything, as if they had known each other for years, at least so Denham looked upon it. He had had a most delightful walk, he told her, and she said she was glad. What he did not tell her was that he had found in her personality something so alluring, in her propinquity something so magnetic that it seemed ages ago when he had never known her. And now he was due to spend an indefinite time in a wild and unfrequented place, with herself and her father as sole companions. Assuredly the situation was charged with potentialities, but from such Alaric Denham, recognising, did not shrink.Two figures were walking a little way in front of them as they drew near the hotel garden gate.“Why, who can that be with father?” said Verna. Then, as they got a little nearer, “Why, if it isn’t Harry Stride!”“Who’s he?”“A prospector. He’s a nice boy. A little while ago he got into a difference of opinion with some of our people and learnt which was softest—his head or a knobkerrie. We mended him up, but it took a little while.”“Poor chap. Is he all right now?”“Oh yes.” And the other two, hearing them, turned and waited.During the greetings which followed a mere glance was sufficient to make Denham acquainted with two things—one, that the newcomer was over head and ears in love with Verna Halse, and the other that Verna was not in the least in love with him. She greeted him with frank, open-hearted friendliness, while his face, in that brief moment, spoke volumes.Then the two men were introduced, and Denham became alive to the fact that the other regarded him with no friendly eyes.“Poor boy,” he thought to himself. “He is handsome, too, very, in the Anglo-Saxon, blue-eyed style, manly-looking as well. I wonder why he has no show.”As the evening wore on this subtle antagonism deepened, at any rate such was obvious to the object thereof. Yet Denham laid himself out to be friendly. He made no attempt to monopolise Verna’s society, but spent most of the time chatting and smoking with her father, leaving the other a clear field so far as he himself was concerned. And of this the other had laid himself out to make the most; as why should he not, since he had ridden a two days’ journey with that express object?Once, when the conversation was general, and turning on the probability of a general rising, the subject of the state of native feeling in the Makanya district came up; Verna said, “Mr Denham came right through the Makanya bush all alone.”But it happened that several people were talking at once, as is not unfrequently the case when a topic of public interest is under discussion, and the remark was lost. Verna did not repeat it. Some strange, unaccountable instinct kept her from doing so. It could be nothing else but instinct, for certainly Denham himself gave no sign of having so much as heard it. But the time was to come when she should look back on that instinct with very real meaning indeed.

The dictum of Ben Halse with regard to his daughter and their new friend was unconsciously echoed by more than one passer-by, as the two strolled leisurely along the broad road which constituted the main “street” of the township, between its lines of foliage, Verna nodding to an acquaintance here and there. Denham was rather an out-of-the-way kind of stranger to drop suddenly into their midst, and again, he seemed to be “in” with the Halses. Could he be an English relation of theirs? they wondered, for there was an unmistakable “out from home” stamp upon him.

“Do you know, you are rather a puzzle to me, Miss Halse,” he suddenly broke out, with regard to nothing in particular.

“Am I? In what way?”

They had reached one of the winding forest roads which had been artificially cleared, and thus made into delightful drives or walks. High overhead the tall tree-tops met, and in the shade beneath, the gaze, turning to either side, met nothing but actual “forest primeval.”

“Why, in this way,” he answered, “Your own surroundings at home, from your account of it and your father’s, must be uncommonly like this; yet when yougethere, among a lot of other people, and houses and gardens and tennis, and all that sort of thing, the first thing you do is to start off for a lonely walk in the forest.”

“Lonely walk? But I don’t feel lonely. You—are fairly good company.” And she flashed at him an uncommonly captivating smile.

“I? Oh, I am an accident. You would have gone anyhow, with or without me.”

With the words something struck him. Was he such an “accident” after all? Denham was not a conceited man, but he was no fool. He was a man of the world, and was perfectly well aware that from a “worldly goods” point of view he would be regarded as a “catch” by most women. Yet somehow, even if the fact of his being here was not accidental, the idea did not displease him—anything but. And he had known his present companion exactly three hours and a half.

“I suppose I should,” she answered. “As for the ‘other people,’ I don’t know that I care much about anybody. They’re a very good sort, and we’re civil to each other when we meet, and so on. But that’s about all. I’ve been so much alone, you see.”

“You remind me of the standing joke about the London ’bus driver—when he gets a day off he spends it riding about on top of another ’bus as a ‘fare,’ likewise the actor, under similar circumstances, goes to other theatres.”

Verna laughed. “Yes, I suppose I’m like that, too. But, do you know, I’m rather energetic—must always be moving.”

“So I should judge. It’s lovely here, but these dense growths of vegetation, especially down in a hollow like this, always strike me as miasmatic.”

Verna looked surprised.

“But this is the first time you have been into—in this country, at any rate.”

He smiled. He could have told a different story.

“I have been in South America, and the forest belts here are a joke to that. But tell me now about the shooting of the record koodoo. Your father wasn’t joking when he said it was your work?”

“No, it’s true.” Then she stopped. A sudden idea had struck her. She did not want to pose as an Amazon before this acquaintance of just three hours and three-quarters. She wished her father had said nothing about it.

“Well done. Why, you’re a regular Diana,” said Denham enthusiastically.

“A regular what? I told you I was utterly uneducated.”

“So you did, and I didn’t believe you, nor do I now. Ladies are not expected to be up in the classics, except the ‘advanced’ ones, and they’re none the better for it. Well, the party I mentioned was a mythical female given to shooting stags with a bow and arrows that wouldn’t damage a mouse—at least that’s how she’s represented in sculpture and painting. Likewise with an incidental cur or two thrown in.”

Verna laughed merrily.

“Oh, is that it?” she said. “Well, I told you I was an ignoramus.”

“Yes; but tell me now about the shooting of the record head.”

She told him, told the story graphically and well, but so far as her own part in it was concerned rather diffidently.

Denham was interested with a vengeance, and in his own mind could not but draw contrasts. This girl, walking beside him in her neat, tasteful attire, why, they might have been walking on an English country road or in an English park! She would have fitted in equally well there. She might have been giving him an account of some dance or theatrical performance, yet just as naturally did she narrate the midnight poaching expedition and the shooting of the large animal by the light of the moon—by herself. The naturalness of her, too, struck him with astonishment: the utter self-possession, living, as she did, a secluded life.

“What are you thinking about?” she said, for he had relapsed into unconscious silence.

“About you,” he answered.

“About me? I expect I can guess what you were thinking.”

“Try.”

“Very well. You were thinking: Here’s a boisterous, sporting female, who rides and shoots like a man, and who fires pistol shots at natives when they offend her; and who probably smokes and swears and drinks, into the bargain.”

“Go on. Anything else?”

“No; that’s enough to go on with.”

“All right. I was thinking nothing of the kind. I was thinking of your pluck, for one thing, and your naturalness for another. I was also thinking that we were having an awfully jolly walk.”

“Yes, it is jolly, isn’t it?” she answered, with that very “naturalness” that he had applauded. “I’m enjoying it no end. Was that all you were thinking?”

“Must I answer that question?”

“Certainly.”

“I was thinking what a delightful speaking voice yours is. It must be great as a singing one.”

A slight flush came over her face.

“You must not pay me compliments, Mr Denham. I had a better opinion of you. But I’m not musical at all. I haven’t even got a piano, and if I had I couldn’t play it. ‘Utterly uneducated,’ as I told you.”

This was met by the same unbelieving head-shake.

“By the way, how many of you are there in the family?” he asked.

“You’ve seen all the family. My mother died when I was quite a wee kiddie, so did a brother. I can’t remember either of them. So you see there are only the two of us.”

“I suppose you get girl friends to visit you sometimes?”

“They’d be bored to death in a week. Besides, I haven’t got any.”

“How strange!”

“Yes, isn’t it? But then, you see, I’ve never been to school, and am seldom away from home. So I have neither time nor opportunity to make them.”

“You are a problem,” he said, looking at her with a strange expression.

“Am I? Well, at any rate, now you know what to expect. But I don’t think you’ll get bored, because you have strong interests of your own.”

Denham was above uttering such a banality as that he could not get bored if she was there, but he felt it all the same. A problem he had called her. Yes, she was a problem indeed; and he would be surprised if she were not the most interesting one with which he had ever been faced.

“Look,” went on Verna, coming to a standstill and pointing with her lightumzimbitiwalking-stick. “That’s not bad for a view.”

They had emerged from the forest ravine and now stood on high ground. The plains swept away to a line of round-topped hills, whose slopes were intersected with similar forest-filled ravines to that behind them, making dark stripes upon the bright green of the slope. It was a lovely evening, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

“No; it’s beautiful,” he answered. “I came here that way, round the back of that range.”

“But that’s the way to Makanya. You didn’t come from Makanya?”

“No; I left it on the left. I wanted to find my way across country. All that forest part is splendid, but rough.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes, except when I got a native as guide for what looked like some of the most difficult parts.”

Verna’s pretty lips emitted a whistle, as she looked at him in astonishment.

“You did rather a risky thing,” she said. “The people down there are none too well affected, and it’s hardly safe in these days for a solitary white man in some parts of the country. And the Zulus are not what they used to be. But how did you manage about talking?”

“Oh, I had picked up an ordinary word or two, and the potent sign of a half-crown piece did the rest. It was quite interesting as an experience, really.”

Verna still looked at him astonished; then she remembered he had said something about South America; still, his undertaking was at that time, as she had said, a risky thing. He, remembering one experience, at any rate, thought she was very likely right.

“Well, you mustn’t take any risks when you are with us,” she said.

“Why? Are the people your way disaffected, too?”

“It isn’t so much that, but you might get lost wandering about by yourself. The forest country is flatter, and there are no landmarks, at any rate, that would be of any use to a stranger.”

“Oh, I’m not much afraid of that,” he answered lightly. They had resumed their walk, which lay back through the forest by a different way, chatting freely about anything and everything, as if they had known each other for years, at least so Denham looked upon it. He had had a most delightful walk, he told her, and she said she was glad. What he did not tell her was that he had found in her personality something so alluring, in her propinquity something so magnetic that it seemed ages ago when he had never known her. And now he was due to spend an indefinite time in a wild and unfrequented place, with herself and her father as sole companions. Assuredly the situation was charged with potentialities, but from such Alaric Denham, recognising, did not shrink.

Two figures were walking a little way in front of them as they drew near the hotel garden gate.

“Why, who can that be with father?” said Verna. Then, as they got a little nearer, “Why, if it isn’t Harry Stride!”

“Who’s he?”

“A prospector. He’s a nice boy. A little while ago he got into a difference of opinion with some of our people and learnt which was softest—his head or a knobkerrie. We mended him up, but it took a little while.”

“Poor chap. Is he all right now?”

“Oh yes.” And the other two, hearing them, turned and waited.

During the greetings which followed a mere glance was sufficient to make Denham acquainted with two things—one, that the newcomer was over head and ears in love with Verna Halse, and the other that Verna was not in the least in love with him. She greeted him with frank, open-hearted friendliness, while his face, in that brief moment, spoke volumes.

Then the two men were introduced, and Denham became alive to the fact that the other regarded him with no friendly eyes.

“Poor boy,” he thought to himself. “He is handsome, too, very, in the Anglo-Saxon, blue-eyed style, manly-looking as well. I wonder why he has no show.”

As the evening wore on this subtle antagonism deepened, at any rate such was obvious to the object thereof. Yet Denham laid himself out to be friendly. He made no attempt to monopolise Verna’s society, but spent most of the time chatting and smoking with her father, leaving the other a clear field so far as he himself was concerned. And of this the other had laid himself out to make the most; as why should he not, since he had ridden a two days’ journey with that express object?

Once, when the conversation was general, and turning on the probability of a general rising, the subject of the state of native feeling in the Makanya district came up; Verna said, “Mr Denham came right through the Makanya bush all alone.”

But it happened that several people were talking at once, as is not unfrequently the case when a topic of public interest is under discussion, and the remark was lost. Verna did not repeat it. Some strange, unaccountable instinct kept her from doing so. It could be nothing else but instinct, for certainly Denham himself gave no sign of having so much as heard it. But the time was to come when she should look back on that instinct with very real meaning indeed.

Chapter Twelve.Treachery.The Lumisana forest covers many square miles of country, and that the roughest and most impenetrable country imaginable. Huge tree-trunks, dense undergrowth, impenetrable thickets ofhaak doorn, that awful fishhook-like thorn which, like the sword of the Edenic angel, turns every way, and growing in such close abattis that any one trying to force his way through it would in a second find not only his clothes but his skin torn to ribbons and could not get through even then. Where the ground was comparatively level a way might be made by the following of game paths; but there were broken, tumbled masses of rocks and cliffs, and dark ravines falling away suddenly, with lateral clefts running up from these for long distances, the said clefts so overhung by dense foliage as to form actual caves into which the light of day could hardly straggle. A terrible, an appalling place to get lost in, save for those with a lifetime of veldt-craft at their back, and the means of procuring wild food. To a new and inexperienced wanderer such a position would be well-nigh hopeless. Snakes of the most deadly varieties were abundant, the hyena and the leopard prowled at night—the latter abnormally bold and fierce, and giant baboons barked raucously from the rocks. Even in full, broad daylight, with the sun glancing down through the network of the tree-tops, there was an awesome stillness and an oppressiveness in the air, breathing of fever; at night the dense solitude and mysterious voices and rustlings were calculated to get upon the nerves.To the natives the place was very muchtagati. It exuded witchcraft and uncanniness. Even in the daytime they did not care to penetrate very far into its mysterious depths, and then only in twos or more. At night they were unanimous in leaving it severely alone.Yet, here are two of them, threading its most untrodden recesses, under a broad, full moon, and they are walking as men with a set purpose. One is a man of tall, splendid physique, the other shorter and older, and both are flagrantly transgressing the laws of the administration under which they live, for each is armed with a rifle as well as two or three assegais.They hold on their way, with that light, elastic, yet firm Zulu step. A white man would be tripping and stumbling and floundering here in these misty shades, but not these. A sort of instinct enables them to grip the ground, to duck where a great overbranching limb bars the path. And the air is hot and heavy and feverish, and even their nearly naked bodies glisten with perspiration.“Au! The way is long. I, who am old, am tired, my father.”The speaker was nearly old enough to be the other’s father, but the title was given in respect to rank.“I, who am young, am tired, Undhlawafa. Tired of being the white man’s dog,” was the sneering reply.“Yet Opondo is a white man,” answered the induna.“Name him not here; he is great. No, he is not a white man. He was once.”“He is but little older than me, son of Umlali. Do I not remember him when we were a nation? He was our friend then, the friend of that Great One who has gone into night.”“He is our friend now, Undhlawafa,” said Sapazani. “That is why we are answering his ‘word’ to-night.”Another hour of travelling—time is nothing to savages, nor distance either—and the sudden, deep-toned baying of dogs smote upon both men’s ears. They continued their snake-like course through the dense foliage and the gloom unhesitatingly. Then the sky lightened. They had emerged from the forest, and in the moonlight a few domed roofs stood forth staring and pale. Within the thorn stockade surrounding these the dogs mouthed and roared. Some one came forth and quieted them, and the two entered, the gate being immediately closed behind them.The man who admitted them saluted with respect. Then he dived into a hut, presently returning with an intimation that they should enter. Prior to doing so both deposited their weapons upon the ground outside.This kraal was deep away in the heart of the forest. It was overhung by a crescent formation of craggy rocks, but over this the growth was so thick that nothing short of hewing a way for days could have brought anyone within overlooking range on that side. In front nearly the same held good, and but that the two who now came to it were past masters in the art of finding their way through apparently impenetrable undergrowth they would have missed it again and again. Besides, they had been here before.The chief occupant of the hut was a white man.He was old. His face was hard and worn, and tanned nearly to the duskiness of the Zulus around him, especially that of Sapazani, who was light-coloured. He wore a long silvered beard, and his blue-grey eyes were bright and glittering. There was a light of magnetic command in them, and indeed in the whole countenance. A strange personality and rather a terrific one. Him the new arrivals saluted with deference.“Welcome, son of Umlali. Also Undhlawafa.”The voice was deep-toned and strong. The utterer seemed not as old as he looked.“We are here, my father,” said Sapazani. “And the news?”“Give it,” turning to a man who sat at his left. Sapazani had been awarded the place of honour on the right.He addressed, who was no other than the subsequently famous Babatyana, did so. His own tribe, the Amahluzi, were armed, so, too, the Amaqwabe, and several other powerful tribes in Natal were also ready. It was only a question of acting in concert. And the great parent stock—that of Zululand—was it ready?“Hehas not yet spoken,” said Sapazani, referring to the head of the royal House.“He is dumb,” said Babatyana, “so far.”Sapazani did not immediately reply. He was pondering. This was the first time he had seen Babatyana, and he was not impressed by him. There was an irresponsible frothiness about his manner which did not appeal. Moreover, as a Zulu of the old stock—and a very conservative one at that—Sapazani could not for the life of him quite throw off the traditional contempt for a “Kafula,” i.e. a Natal native. And the latter wore European clothes.“So far it is like a broken chain,” he said; “like the white man’s chain. If one link is broken, of what use is the chain?”“And that link?” asked Babatyana.“Sigananda and Mehlo-ka-zulu,” returned Sapazani.“Those links can be forged,” said the white man. “There are others, too, which will render the chain a double one.”The plotting went on, till a whole scheme for a simultaneous rising was most carefully elaborated. It was curious with what solicitude this white man threw himself into the plan for the slaughter of his own countrymen. The cruel face grew more hard and cruel as he arranged or disposed of each detail. Its cold ruthlessness struck even the Zulus, as he went on elucidating the scheme; would have struck them with astonishment, but that they knew his history. And yet the presence of this man in the country at all was barely suspected by those who administered the said country.By linking up all the tribes from central Natal right to the north of Zululand, a sweep downward could be made. The wavering ones would join, and then—no more officialdom or pass-laws or taxes. They would be free again, not as the white arch-plotter was careful to explain, by their force of arms alone, but because those who ruled them from across the sea were divided among themselves. It was difficult to understand, but Opondo, (The Horns) for that was his native name, knew everything. He had been known among them formerly by another name, but that for good reasons washlonipa, i.e. hidden, now, and the present substitute was, darkly, near enough to it.For upwards of an hour they sat listening, hanging on his words, showing their assent by emphatic exclamations when he made a special point. And no one was more emphatic than a man who had said very little during theindaba. He was not a chief, but a follower of Babatyana, and his name was Pandulu; and he had not said much—had only listened.Nowtywalawas brought in and distributed. The white man lighted a pipe, so, too, did Babatyana, a proceeding which brought an ill-concealed sneer to Sapazani’s face, for that conservative chief and his induna confined themselves to the good old custom of taking snuff. Pipe smoking and clothes wearing went together, they decided, contemptuously. With a white man, of course, it was different. Such things were his custom. But it affected them even further. What about joining forces with such a decadent as this? AKafula! who wore clothes—dirty clothes at that—and smoked a pipe!Theindabahad dropped; but now Pandulu, who had spoken but little before, seemed anxious to revive it. He, too, came under the mistrust of Sapazani. He, too, smoked a pipe and wore clothes. Then food was brought in—the usual beef and roast mealies, and all took a hearty hand at the trencher. By this time the night was wearing on.Sapazani and his induna got up to leave. They did not wish it to be known they had been in converse with Opondo, wherefore it was just as well to be out of the forest before dawn.Outside in the clear moonlight the dogs began to raise a great clamour, in the midst of which the white man put an injunction upon Babatyana, who was sleeping at the kraal, to the effect that he should send his follower, Pandulu, with Sapazani. He gave no reason—his word was sufficient.The trio started.The owner of the kraal stood alone, gazing forth into the night, and the hard and cruel expression deepened upon his strong face. His was a lifelong feud—a feud deadly and vengeful—with his own race. He lived for that, and for nothing else. His was a terrible and mysterious personality. He could sway tribes and nations, and yet not appear himself. Even among the natives themselves there were comparatively few who had actually seen him, yet every disturbance or rumour of disturbance he was at the back of.“Just such a night as this,” he murmured to himself, gazing at the full moon, then at the great sweep of forest with its weird, nocturnal noises. “Just such a night.”The face softened somewhat at the recollection, then hardened again more than ever. More blood was to flow, more blood to be poured out upon the altar of a never-dying vengeance.The three wended through the labyrinthine shades, finding their way with almost the instinct of wild animals. Pandulu talked volubly about the coming rising, but the other two, beyond putting a question or so here and there, said not much.“Whau!” he exclaimed, looking up. “The moon is sinking. Shall we not rest and make a fire? This is a place for evil things to happen in the black darkness.”“For evil things to happen,” repeated Sapazani. “For evil things to happen.Eh-hé, Pandulu.”There was that in the tone which the man addressed did not like. Or could it be that a whispered word or two between the chief and Opondo had not escaped his notice, though he could not hear its burden?As he had said, the moon was dropping, and more than an hour of black darkness lay between this and daylight. And darkness under these shades could be very black indeed. Anyway, he did not like the chief’s tone—no, not a bit. Perhaps he had some secret reason of his own for not liking it, anyway he suddenly realised that he was in deadly peril.“Here will we rest,” said Sapazani, coming to a sudden halt. They had gained an open space, which was lighter beneath the dying moon. The stranger agreed with alacrity.“I will go and gather sticks for a fire,” he said, making a move towards the thickest part of the bush.“Move not,” said the chief sternly, covering him with his rifle.This was unanswerable. Yet quick as thought, in sheer desperation, Pandulu turned and fled. But no bullet stopped his course or whizzed past him. Dropping his rifle, Sapazani sprang in pursuit.It was something of a chase. The hunted man fleeing for life itself, as now he knew, twisted and doubled like a hare, and in running had just as good a chance as his pursuer. The latter, for his part, realising what enormous odds were at stake upon this man escaping, put forward every effort. Even then it is doubtful whether he would have been successful; but a forest game path is an awkward place for a sprinting match, and the fugitive’s foot catching in some tangle of undergrowth he fell headlong. In a moment his pursuer was upon him.Pandulu realised that his end had come. His struggles were useless beneath the weight and against the powerful grasp of Sapazani, for he had fallen face downward, and his pursuer had taken care he should not move from that position.“Well, traitor! Well, white man’s dog!” snarled the chief. “I am going to pass the remainder of the dark hours beside a fire, and on that fire thyself. Ha! it will be a warm one. But to begin with—how likest thou that and that?”“That and that” represented two long cuts of Sapazani’s sharp assegai, drawn across the fallen man’s shoulders. The flesh quivered convulsively, but no groan escaped the tortured man. Even then he was calculating his chances, for he still clung desperately to life. In a few minutes it would be pitch dark, could he not, by a sudden movement, wriggle himself free? The chances of flight under such conditions would be all in his favour. And the stakes! He had been promised reward such as would have made him rich for life, and could he have made such a discovery as that Sapazani was a leading figure in the plot, why, it would have meant still more. But another sharp dig from the assegai again made him writhe.“Now white man’s little-dog who would have betrayed us,” went on the chief in a growling tone, like that of a wild beast. “That other will find us directly, and then we will make a fire and have a merry roast. Ha! And that roast shall be thyself. Ha!”“Spare me the fire, my father, and I will name thee others who have more to do with this than I,” pleaded the captive.Sapazani was on the alert. He saw through the other’s plan. It was a question of a sudden relaxation of muscle on his part and his victim would slip through his fingers, and away into the darkness. Ought he not to kill him at once? If only Undhlawafa were not so old and slow-footed! He could hold his victim for ever if necessary, but he could not tie him up and light a fire single-handed.“Who are ‘others,’ and what part had they?” demanded the chief, with another admonitory prod.The victim named two names. Sapazani nodded. Them he could easily get into his power. Pandulu then began to give details of the scheme under which the plotters were to be brought within the white man’s net, all unconsciously, and there arrested. He also entered into considerable detail as to the reward they—the traitors—were to receive. But this did not hoodwink Sapazani. He felt the creeping tension of the muscles of his victim, knew that the latter was reckoning on the listener’s physical tension growing merged in his mental interest, so that at the right moment he should make a spring for life and liberty. He took a quick glance upward. He could tell by the sky that the moon had nearly disappeared. No, he could not afford to wait any longer for Undhlawafa. Just then two tiger wolves howled, answering each other, very near at hand.“They wait for thee, Pandulu,” he snarled. “Already they smell blood. Well, go.Hamba gahle!”With the words he drove his assegai down hard between the prostrate man’s shoulders. The body and limbs quivered convulsively, beating the ground. Hardly had they stilled than the faint light disappeared. It would not have been safe to have delayed any longer. And in the black gloom of the grim forest the dead man lay, and before morning the ravening beasts would have left nothing of him but crunched and scattered bones.Those few last words whispered to Sapazani by the white arch-plotter had contained a death warrant.

The Lumisana forest covers many square miles of country, and that the roughest and most impenetrable country imaginable. Huge tree-trunks, dense undergrowth, impenetrable thickets ofhaak doorn, that awful fishhook-like thorn which, like the sword of the Edenic angel, turns every way, and growing in such close abattis that any one trying to force his way through it would in a second find not only his clothes but his skin torn to ribbons and could not get through even then. Where the ground was comparatively level a way might be made by the following of game paths; but there were broken, tumbled masses of rocks and cliffs, and dark ravines falling away suddenly, with lateral clefts running up from these for long distances, the said clefts so overhung by dense foliage as to form actual caves into which the light of day could hardly straggle. A terrible, an appalling place to get lost in, save for those with a lifetime of veldt-craft at their back, and the means of procuring wild food. To a new and inexperienced wanderer such a position would be well-nigh hopeless. Snakes of the most deadly varieties were abundant, the hyena and the leopard prowled at night—the latter abnormally bold and fierce, and giant baboons barked raucously from the rocks. Even in full, broad daylight, with the sun glancing down through the network of the tree-tops, there was an awesome stillness and an oppressiveness in the air, breathing of fever; at night the dense solitude and mysterious voices and rustlings were calculated to get upon the nerves.

To the natives the place was very muchtagati. It exuded witchcraft and uncanniness. Even in the daytime they did not care to penetrate very far into its mysterious depths, and then only in twos or more. At night they were unanimous in leaving it severely alone.

Yet, here are two of them, threading its most untrodden recesses, under a broad, full moon, and they are walking as men with a set purpose. One is a man of tall, splendid physique, the other shorter and older, and both are flagrantly transgressing the laws of the administration under which they live, for each is armed with a rifle as well as two or three assegais.

They hold on their way, with that light, elastic, yet firm Zulu step. A white man would be tripping and stumbling and floundering here in these misty shades, but not these. A sort of instinct enables them to grip the ground, to duck where a great overbranching limb bars the path. And the air is hot and heavy and feverish, and even their nearly naked bodies glisten with perspiration.

“Au! The way is long. I, who am old, am tired, my father.”

The speaker was nearly old enough to be the other’s father, but the title was given in respect to rank.

“I, who am young, am tired, Undhlawafa. Tired of being the white man’s dog,” was the sneering reply.

“Yet Opondo is a white man,” answered the induna.

“Name him not here; he is great. No, he is not a white man. He was once.”

“He is but little older than me, son of Umlali. Do I not remember him when we were a nation? He was our friend then, the friend of that Great One who has gone into night.”

“He is our friend now, Undhlawafa,” said Sapazani. “That is why we are answering his ‘word’ to-night.”

Another hour of travelling—time is nothing to savages, nor distance either—and the sudden, deep-toned baying of dogs smote upon both men’s ears. They continued their snake-like course through the dense foliage and the gloom unhesitatingly. Then the sky lightened. They had emerged from the forest, and in the moonlight a few domed roofs stood forth staring and pale. Within the thorn stockade surrounding these the dogs mouthed and roared. Some one came forth and quieted them, and the two entered, the gate being immediately closed behind them.

The man who admitted them saluted with respect. Then he dived into a hut, presently returning with an intimation that they should enter. Prior to doing so both deposited their weapons upon the ground outside.

This kraal was deep away in the heart of the forest. It was overhung by a crescent formation of craggy rocks, but over this the growth was so thick that nothing short of hewing a way for days could have brought anyone within overlooking range on that side. In front nearly the same held good, and but that the two who now came to it were past masters in the art of finding their way through apparently impenetrable undergrowth they would have missed it again and again. Besides, they had been here before.

The chief occupant of the hut was a white man.

He was old. His face was hard and worn, and tanned nearly to the duskiness of the Zulus around him, especially that of Sapazani, who was light-coloured. He wore a long silvered beard, and his blue-grey eyes were bright and glittering. There was a light of magnetic command in them, and indeed in the whole countenance. A strange personality and rather a terrific one. Him the new arrivals saluted with deference.

“Welcome, son of Umlali. Also Undhlawafa.”

The voice was deep-toned and strong. The utterer seemed not as old as he looked.

“We are here, my father,” said Sapazani. “And the news?”

“Give it,” turning to a man who sat at his left. Sapazani had been awarded the place of honour on the right.

He addressed, who was no other than the subsequently famous Babatyana, did so. His own tribe, the Amahluzi, were armed, so, too, the Amaqwabe, and several other powerful tribes in Natal were also ready. It was only a question of acting in concert. And the great parent stock—that of Zululand—was it ready?

“Hehas not yet spoken,” said Sapazani, referring to the head of the royal House.

“He is dumb,” said Babatyana, “so far.”

Sapazani did not immediately reply. He was pondering. This was the first time he had seen Babatyana, and he was not impressed by him. There was an irresponsible frothiness about his manner which did not appeal. Moreover, as a Zulu of the old stock—and a very conservative one at that—Sapazani could not for the life of him quite throw off the traditional contempt for a “Kafula,” i.e. a Natal native. And the latter wore European clothes.

“So far it is like a broken chain,” he said; “like the white man’s chain. If one link is broken, of what use is the chain?”

“And that link?” asked Babatyana.

“Sigananda and Mehlo-ka-zulu,” returned Sapazani.

“Those links can be forged,” said the white man. “There are others, too, which will render the chain a double one.”

The plotting went on, till a whole scheme for a simultaneous rising was most carefully elaborated. It was curious with what solicitude this white man threw himself into the plan for the slaughter of his own countrymen. The cruel face grew more hard and cruel as he arranged or disposed of each detail. Its cold ruthlessness struck even the Zulus, as he went on elucidating the scheme; would have struck them with astonishment, but that they knew his history. And yet the presence of this man in the country at all was barely suspected by those who administered the said country.

By linking up all the tribes from central Natal right to the north of Zululand, a sweep downward could be made. The wavering ones would join, and then—no more officialdom or pass-laws or taxes. They would be free again, not as the white arch-plotter was careful to explain, by their force of arms alone, but because those who ruled them from across the sea were divided among themselves. It was difficult to understand, but Opondo, (The Horns) for that was his native name, knew everything. He had been known among them formerly by another name, but that for good reasons washlonipa, i.e. hidden, now, and the present substitute was, darkly, near enough to it.

For upwards of an hour they sat listening, hanging on his words, showing their assent by emphatic exclamations when he made a special point. And no one was more emphatic than a man who had said very little during theindaba. He was not a chief, but a follower of Babatyana, and his name was Pandulu; and he had not said much—had only listened.

Nowtywalawas brought in and distributed. The white man lighted a pipe, so, too, did Babatyana, a proceeding which brought an ill-concealed sneer to Sapazani’s face, for that conservative chief and his induna confined themselves to the good old custom of taking snuff. Pipe smoking and clothes wearing went together, they decided, contemptuously. With a white man, of course, it was different. Such things were his custom. But it affected them even further. What about joining forces with such a decadent as this? AKafula! who wore clothes—dirty clothes at that—and smoked a pipe!

Theindabahad dropped; but now Pandulu, who had spoken but little before, seemed anxious to revive it. He, too, came under the mistrust of Sapazani. He, too, smoked a pipe and wore clothes. Then food was brought in—the usual beef and roast mealies, and all took a hearty hand at the trencher. By this time the night was wearing on.

Sapazani and his induna got up to leave. They did not wish it to be known they had been in converse with Opondo, wherefore it was just as well to be out of the forest before dawn.

Outside in the clear moonlight the dogs began to raise a great clamour, in the midst of which the white man put an injunction upon Babatyana, who was sleeping at the kraal, to the effect that he should send his follower, Pandulu, with Sapazani. He gave no reason—his word was sufficient.

The trio started.

The owner of the kraal stood alone, gazing forth into the night, and the hard and cruel expression deepened upon his strong face. His was a lifelong feud—a feud deadly and vengeful—with his own race. He lived for that, and for nothing else. His was a terrible and mysterious personality. He could sway tribes and nations, and yet not appear himself. Even among the natives themselves there were comparatively few who had actually seen him, yet every disturbance or rumour of disturbance he was at the back of.

“Just such a night as this,” he murmured to himself, gazing at the full moon, then at the great sweep of forest with its weird, nocturnal noises. “Just such a night.”

The face softened somewhat at the recollection, then hardened again more than ever. More blood was to flow, more blood to be poured out upon the altar of a never-dying vengeance.

The three wended through the labyrinthine shades, finding their way with almost the instinct of wild animals. Pandulu talked volubly about the coming rising, but the other two, beyond putting a question or so here and there, said not much.

“Whau!” he exclaimed, looking up. “The moon is sinking. Shall we not rest and make a fire? This is a place for evil things to happen in the black darkness.”

“For evil things to happen,” repeated Sapazani. “For evil things to happen.Eh-hé, Pandulu.”

There was that in the tone which the man addressed did not like. Or could it be that a whispered word or two between the chief and Opondo had not escaped his notice, though he could not hear its burden?

As he had said, the moon was dropping, and more than an hour of black darkness lay between this and daylight. And darkness under these shades could be very black indeed. Anyway, he did not like the chief’s tone—no, not a bit. Perhaps he had some secret reason of his own for not liking it, anyway he suddenly realised that he was in deadly peril.

“Here will we rest,” said Sapazani, coming to a sudden halt. They had gained an open space, which was lighter beneath the dying moon. The stranger agreed with alacrity.

“I will go and gather sticks for a fire,” he said, making a move towards the thickest part of the bush.

“Move not,” said the chief sternly, covering him with his rifle.

This was unanswerable. Yet quick as thought, in sheer desperation, Pandulu turned and fled. But no bullet stopped his course or whizzed past him. Dropping his rifle, Sapazani sprang in pursuit.

It was something of a chase. The hunted man fleeing for life itself, as now he knew, twisted and doubled like a hare, and in running had just as good a chance as his pursuer. The latter, for his part, realising what enormous odds were at stake upon this man escaping, put forward every effort. Even then it is doubtful whether he would have been successful; but a forest game path is an awkward place for a sprinting match, and the fugitive’s foot catching in some tangle of undergrowth he fell headlong. In a moment his pursuer was upon him.

Pandulu realised that his end had come. His struggles were useless beneath the weight and against the powerful grasp of Sapazani, for he had fallen face downward, and his pursuer had taken care he should not move from that position.

“Well, traitor! Well, white man’s dog!” snarled the chief. “I am going to pass the remainder of the dark hours beside a fire, and on that fire thyself. Ha! it will be a warm one. But to begin with—how likest thou that and that?”

“That and that” represented two long cuts of Sapazani’s sharp assegai, drawn across the fallen man’s shoulders. The flesh quivered convulsively, but no groan escaped the tortured man. Even then he was calculating his chances, for he still clung desperately to life. In a few minutes it would be pitch dark, could he not, by a sudden movement, wriggle himself free? The chances of flight under such conditions would be all in his favour. And the stakes! He had been promised reward such as would have made him rich for life, and could he have made such a discovery as that Sapazani was a leading figure in the plot, why, it would have meant still more. But another sharp dig from the assegai again made him writhe.

“Now white man’s little-dog who would have betrayed us,” went on the chief in a growling tone, like that of a wild beast. “That other will find us directly, and then we will make a fire and have a merry roast. Ha! And that roast shall be thyself. Ha!”

“Spare me the fire, my father, and I will name thee others who have more to do with this than I,” pleaded the captive.

Sapazani was on the alert. He saw through the other’s plan. It was a question of a sudden relaxation of muscle on his part and his victim would slip through his fingers, and away into the darkness. Ought he not to kill him at once? If only Undhlawafa were not so old and slow-footed! He could hold his victim for ever if necessary, but he could not tie him up and light a fire single-handed.

“Who are ‘others,’ and what part had they?” demanded the chief, with another admonitory prod.

The victim named two names. Sapazani nodded. Them he could easily get into his power. Pandulu then began to give details of the scheme under which the plotters were to be brought within the white man’s net, all unconsciously, and there arrested. He also entered into considerable detail as to the reward they—the traitors—were to receive. But this did not hoodwink Sapazani. He felt the creeping tension of the muscles of his victim, knew that the latter was reckoning on the listener’s physical tension growing merged in his mental interest, so that at the right moment he should make a spring for life and liberty. He took a quick glance upward. He could tell by the sky that the moon had nearly disappeared. No, he could not afford to wait any longer for Undhlawafa. Just then two tiger wolves howled, answering each other, very near at hand.

“They wait for thee, Pandulu,” he snarled. “Already they smell blood. Well, go.Hamba gahle!”

With the words he drove his assegai down hard between the prostrate man’s shoulders. The body and limbs quivered convulsively, beating the ground. Hardly had they stilled than the faint light disappeared. It would not have been safe to have delayed any longer. And in the black gloom of the grim forest the dead man lay, and before morning the ravening beasts would have left nothing of him but crunched and scattered bones.

Those few last words whispered to Sapazani by the white arch-plotter had contained a death warrant.

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