Chapter Two.

Chapter Two.“The Tale of the Spear.”“Whau!” ejaculated Ziboza, one of the fighting indunas of the Ingubu Regiment. “These two first.”The two men constituting the picket are seated under a bush in blissful unconsciousness; their horses, saddled and bridled, grazing close at hand. Away over the veldt, nearly half a mile distant, the column is laagered.In obedience to their leader’s mandate a line of dark savages darts forth, like a tongue, from the main body. Worming noiselessly through the bush and grass, yet moving with incredible rapidity, these are advancing swiftly and surely upon the two white men, their objective the point where they can get between the latter and their horses.These men are there to watch over the safety of the column laagered up yonder, but who shall watch over their own safety? Nearer—nearer! and now the muscles start from each bronze frame, and the fell, murderous assegai is grasped in sinewy grip. Straining eyeballs stare forth in bloodthirsty exultation. The prey is secure.No. Not quite. The horses, whose keener faculties can discern the approach of a crowd of musky-smelling barbarians, while the denser perceptions of the two obtuse humans cannot, now cease grazing and throw up their heads and snort. Even the men can hardly close their eyes to such a danger signal as this. Starting to their feet they gaze eagerly forth, and—make for the horses as fast as they can.Too late, however, in the case of one of them. The enemy is upon them, and one of the horses, scared by the terrible Matabele battle-hiss, and the waving of shields and the leaping of dark, fantastically arrayed forms, refuses to be caught. The owner starts to run, but what chance has he against these? He is soon overtaken, and blades rise and fall, and the ferocity of the exultant death-hiss of the barbarians mingles with the dropping rifle. Are they are keeping up on his fleeing companion, and the sputter and roll of volleys from the laager. For this is what has been happening there.Steadily, ever with the most perfect discipline and organisation, the column had advanced, and now after upwards of a month of care and vigilance, and difficulties met and surmounted, was drawing very near its goal.The enemy had hovered, upon its flanks since the last pitched battle, now nearly a week ago, as though making up his mind to do something towards redeeming his defeat upon that occasion; but unremitting vigilance together with a few timely and long range shells had seemed to damp his aspirations that way.“I wonder if they’ll try conclusions with us once more, before we get there,” observed the commanding officer, scanning the country, front and flank, with his field glasses. “What do you think, Blachland?”“I think they will, Major,” was the confident reply.“No such luck,” growled one of the group. “After the hammering we gave them at Shangani. I tell you what it is, Blachland. These wonderful Matabele of yours are miserable devils after all. I don’t believe they’ve another kick in them,” added this cocksure Briton.Hard, weather-beaten men these—tough as nails from the life they have been leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been tested again and again, and have passed the ordeal well: not only under fire, but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring and nocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section, and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason of his complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and his acquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.“No more bad country you say?” went on the commanding officer, making some notes in a pocket-book.“No. It’s all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderately bushed. Yonder is the Intaba-’Zinduna, and we hold to the left of its further end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attacked between this and Bulawayo, and that’s barely twenty miles, why any minute may settle it.”“Why what’s this?” muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringing his glass to his eyes.“Ah, I thought so,” said Blachland with a smile. “We shall get it here, Major.”Dark masses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front—still about a mile off. No sooner had the shells begun to drop among these than the alarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfect discipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle line of the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on the northern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud of the machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep, humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individual excited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging the marksmanship of the defenders.The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide on again. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen to be extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, within the savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and “ping” around the ears of the defenders.“They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?” remarks Blachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark. For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, had struck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speaker himself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums right over his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.“Oh damn them, yes!” answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teeth with the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle—aiming low—into the enemy’s line.For a while matters are lively. Massing at this and that point the swarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns are turned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organised movement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, or writhing in death—and shields flung around in all directions, for which their owners will never more have use. But within the laager the organisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it, and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.“Come along, Blachland!” shouted another member of the scouting section, in a state of the wildest excitement. “Jump on your gee, man! We’ve got to go and turn back those horses, or we’ll lose every hoof of them.”He addressed, looked round and took in the situation at a glance, and a thrilling one it was. A large troop of horses, which had been grazing outside, by some blundering on the part of the herders, had been headed off while being driven into the laager, and now were making straight in the direction of the enemy’s lines.There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men who dashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness, commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-stricken horses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, the pursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.“Hold to the right! More to the right!” cried Blachland, edging further in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now, during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp “crack—crack” of the rifles of the advancing savages, the “whigge” and hum of missiles overhead—in front—around—all was as nothing. Then he realised that they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy’s line. And then—“Help, help! For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all, the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and were rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to secure at any rate this one victim.“For God’s sake, don’t leave me!” again yelled the unfortunate man, the terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance. And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so grossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicable fashion? Anybody else—but this one—no, he would not.Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucial moment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet a bloody death had betrayed him—but another and a purer vision swept his brain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was that of Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed.Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to the unhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now near enough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar.“Isipau! Ha! Isipau!”“Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!”The other needed no second bidding. As the horse with its double burden—either of these, singly, would have been a sufficient one for the poor brute, blown as he was—started once more, the foremost line of the savages was barely two hundred yards distant. Leaping, bounding, uttering their blood-curdling war-hiss, they reckoned their prey secure. The horse, weighted like that could never distance them. They would overtake it long before camp should be reached. Already they gripped their assegais.“Sit tight, Spence, or you’ll pull us both to the ground,” said Hilary, with a sardonic suspicion that if the other saw a chance of throwing him off without risking a similar fate himself, he was quite mean enough to seize it. “Sit light too, if you can, and spare the horse as much as possible.”Down into a hollow, and here, in the bed of a dry watercourse, the game steed stumbled heavily, but just saved his footing, and thereby the lives of his two riders. Bullets flew humming past now, but it seemed that the din of their pursuers was further behind, and indeed such was the case, for they arrived at the laager at the same time as the rescued troop horses.“Good God! Blachland! You are a splendid fellow, and I owe you my life,” gasped the rescued man. “But what must you think of me?” he added shamefacedly.“No more no less than I did before,” was the curt reply. “Get off now. You’re quite safe.”“You ought to get the V.C. for this,” went on Spence.But the other replied by coupling that ardently coveted decoration with a word of a condemnatory character. “I believe I’ve nearly killed my horse,” he added crustily.There were those in the laager who witnessed this, and to whom the circumstances of the former acquaintanceship between the two men were known—but they tactfully refrained from making any comment. Percival West, however, was not so reticent.“Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?” he cried, fairly dancing with delight. “Why didn’t you take me with you though—”“Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young ass,” was the very ill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by his kinsman.The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for he still hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make things warm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into the thicker bush, until a few deftly planted shells taught him that he had not yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Isipau! Ha! Isipau!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three.A Flaming Throne.“Too late, boys, I guess the Southern Column got there first.” And the utterer of this remark lowered his field glasses and turned to the remainder of the little band of scouts with an air of profound conviction.Away in the distance dense columns of smoke were rising heavenward. For some time this group of men had been eagerly intent upon watching the phenomenon through their glasses, and there was reason for their eagerness, for they were looking upon the goal of the expedition, and what should practically represent the close of the campaign—Bulawayo to wit, but—Bulawayo in flames. Who had fired it?Considerable disappointment was felt and expressed. Their prompt march, their hard and victorious fighting had not brought them first to the goal. The Southern Column had distanced them and was there already. Such was the conclusion arrived at on all sides.One man, however, had let go no opinion. Lying full length, his field glass adjusted upon a convenient rock, he had been steadily scanning the burning kraal in the distance during all the foregoing discussion, ignoring the latter as though he were alone on the ground. Now he spoke.“There’s no Southern Column thereat all. No sign or trace of a camp.”This dictum was received with dissent, even with a little derision.“Who’s set it on fire then, Blachland?” said one of the exponents of the latter phase, with a wink at the others. “You’re not going to tell us that Lo Bengula’s set his own shop alight?”“That’s about what’s occurred,” was the tranquil reply. “At least I think so.”“It’s more’n likely Blachland’s right, boys,” said one of the scouts, speaking with a pronounced American accent. “He’s been there anyway.”With renewed eagerness every glass was once more brought to bear. There appeared to be four great columns of smoke, and these, as they watched, were merging into one, of vast volume, and now bright jets of flame were discernible, as the fire licked its way along the thatch of the grass huts. Then something strange befel. They who watched saw a fresh outburst of smoke rise suddenly like an enormous dome from the centre of that already ascending, seeming to bear aloft on its summit the fragments of roofs, fences,débrisof every description, and then they were conscious of a mighty roar and a vibrating shock, as the whole mass subsided, releasing the flames, which shot up anew.“That’s an explosion!” cried some one excitedly. “Old Lo Ben’s not only burnt his nest, but blown it up into the bargain.”For some time further they lay there watching the distant work of destruction. Then it was decided that their number should be divided, and while some returned to the column to report the result of their observations, the remainder should push on, and get as near Bulawayo as they possibly could—an undertaking of no slight risk, and calling for the exercise of unflagging caution, for there was no telling what bands of the enemy might be hovering about in quite sufficient strength to prove dangerous to a mere handful, though the opinion was that the bulk of the nation’s forces, with the King, had fled northward.“Well, Percy? Tired of this kind of fun yet?” said Blachland as he and his young kinsman rode side by side, the two or three more also bent on this service advancing a little further on their right flank.“Rather not. I wish it wasn’t going to be over quite so quickly.”The other laughed. “I’m not so sure that it is,” he said.“Eh? But we’ve got Bulawayo.”“But we haven’t got Lo Ben yet. My impression is that the tougher part of this campaign is going to begin now. I may be wrong of course, but that’s my impression.”“Oh, then that settles it,” answered Percival, not ironically, but in whole-hearted good faith, for his belief in, and admiration for his relative had reached the wildest pitch of enthusiasm. There was no greater authority in the world, in his estimation, on everything to do with the country they were in. He would have accepted Hilary’s opinion and acted upon it, even though it went clean contrary to those in command all put together, upon any subject to do with the work in hand, and that with the blindest confidence. And then, had he not himself witnessed Hilary’s gallant and daring deed, during the battle fought a couple of days ago?His presence there with the scouts instead of as an ordinary trooper in the column, he owed to his relative, the latter having specially asked that he should be allowed to accompany him in such capacity. Blachland at that juncture, with his up-to-date knowledge of the country and the natives, was far too useful a man not to stretch a point for, and Percival West, although new to that part, was accustomed to sport and outdoor life at home, and brimful of pluck and energy, and now, in the short time he had been out, had thoroughly adapted himself to the life, and the vicissitudes of the campaign.To the cause of their being up here together Hilary never alluded, but he noted with quiet satisfaction that the cure in the case of his young cousin seemed complete. Once the latter volunteered a statement to that effect.“Ah, yes,” he had replied. “Nothing like a life of this sort for knocking any nonsense of that kind out of a fellow—” mentally adding, somewhat grimly, “When he’s young.”For Hilary Blachland himself did not find the busy and dangerous, and at times exciting, work of the campaign by any means such an unfailing panacea as he preached it to his younger relative. With it all there was plenty of time for thought, for retrospect. What an empty and useless thing he had made of life, and now the best part of it was all behind him—now that it had been brought home to him that there was a best part, now that it was too late. He was familiar with the axiom that those who sell themselves to the devil seldom obtain their price, and had often scoffed at it: for one thing because he did not believe in the devil at all. Yet now, looking back, he had come to recognise that, in substance at least, the axiom was a true one.Yes, the better part of his life was now behind him, with its ideals, its possibilities, its finer impulses. Carrying his bitter introspect within the physical domain, had he not become rough and weather-beaten and lined and seamed and puckered? It did not strike him as odd that he should be indulging in such analysis at all—yet had he let anybody else, say any of his present comrades, into the fact that he was doing so, they would have deemed him mad, for if there was a man with that expedition who was envied by most of his said comrades as the embodiment of cool, sound daring, combined with astute judgment, of rare physical vigour and striking exterior, assuredly that man was Hilary Blachland. Yet as it was, he regarded himself with entire dissatisfaction and disgust, and the medium through which he so regarded himself was named Lyn Bayfield.Her memory was ever before him; more, her presence. Asleep or awake, in the thick of the hardest toil and privation of the campaign, even in the midst of the discharge of his most important and responsible duties yet never to their detriment, the sweet, pure, lovely fairness of her face was there. He had come to worship it with a kind of superstitious adoration as though in truth the presence of it constituted a kind of guardian angel.Was he, after all, in love with Lyn? He supposed that not a man or woman alive, knowing the symptoms, but would pronounce such to be the case, even as one woman had done. But he knew better, knew himself better. The association of anything so gross, so earthly, here, he recoiled from as from an outrage. It was the unalloyed adoration of a strange, a holy and a purifying influence.In love with her? He, Hilary Blachland, at his time of life, and with his experience of life, in love! Why, the idea was preposterous, grotesque. He recalled the time he had spent beneath the same roof with her, and the daily association. It would be treasured, revered to the utmost limit of his life, as a sacred and an elevating period, but—as an influence, not a passion.He had exchanged correspondence with Bayfield more than once since leaving, and had received two or three letters from Lyn—expressing—well, simply Lyn. He had answered them, and treasured them secretly as the most priceless of his possessions. From Bayfield he had learned that the disturbing element had refrained from further molestation, and had moreover, taken her own departure from the neighbourhood almost immediately, a piece of intelligence which afforded him indeed the liveliest gratification.As they drew near to their objective, other kraals near and around Bulawayo itself, were seen to be on fire. But no sign of their recent occupants. For all trace remaining of the latter, the whole Matabele nation might have vanished into thin air.“That’s extraordinary,” remarked Blachland, taking a long steady look through his glasses. “That’s Sybrandt’s house down there and they haven’t burnt it,” pointing out a collection of buildings about a mile from the site of the great kraal.“So it is. Wonder if it means a trap though,” said another of the scouts. “By Jingo! There’s some one signalling up there. I’ll bet my bottom dollar it’s a white man by the look of him. And—there are two of ’em.”Such was in fact the case—and the biggest surprise of all came off when a couple of white traders, well known to most of them, came forward to welcome them to the conquered and now razed capital. There these two had dwelt throughout the campaign, often in peril, but protected by the word of the King. Lo Bengula had burnt his capital and fled, taking with him the bulk of the nation. He, the dreaded and haughty potentate of the North, whose rule had been synonymous with a terror and a scourge, had gone down before a mere handful of whites, he, the dusky barbarian, the cruel despot, according to popular report revelling in bloodshed and suffering, had taken his revenge. He had protected these two white men alone in his power—had left them, safe and sound in person, unharmed even in their possessions, to welcome the invading conquerors, their countrymen, to the blazing ruins of his once proud home. Such the revenge of this savage.The Southern Column did not arrive till some days after the first occupation of Bulawayo, and some little time elapsed, resting and waiting for necessary supplies, before the new expedition should start northward, to effect if possible, the capture of the fugitive King. Several up-country going men were here foregathered.“I say, Blachland,” said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to the southward, “We didn’t reckon to meet again like this last time when we broke camp yonder on the Matya’mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out of the country? Eh?”“Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?”“I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?”“Here, let’s have another tot all round,” interrupted Pemberton who, by the way, had had just as many as were good for him. “You ain’t going to nobble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don’t you think it.”“Who says so, Pemberton?”“I say so. Didn’t I say Blachland ’ud never get to Umzilikazi’s grave? Didn’t I? Well, he never did.”Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzical glance which passed between Blachland and Sybrandt—who was in the know—at this allusion, went unnoticed. Pemberton continued, albeit rather thickly:“Didn’t I say he’d never get there? Didn’t I? Well, I say the same now. You’ll never get there. You’ll never nobble Lo Ben. See if I ain’t right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh? But we’ve got Bulawayo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says so, Pemberton?”

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

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

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

Chapter Four.The Retreat of the Patrol.The patrol held on its retreat.Wearily on, from day to day, nearly a hundred and a half of hungry, ragged, footsore men—their clothing well-nigh in tatters, their feet bursting out of their boots, in several instances strips of clothing wound round their feet, as a sort of tinkered substitute for what had once been boots, as sole protection against thorns and stony ground, and the blades of the long tambuti grass, which cut like knives—depression at their hearts because of the score and a half of brave staunch comrades whom they had but the faintest hope of ever beholding again—depression too, in their faces, gaunt, haggard and unkempt, yet with it a set fierce look of determination, a dogged, never-say-die expression, still they held on. And ever upon their flanks hovered the savage enemy, wiser now in his generation, wasting his strength no more in fierce rushes, to be mown helplessly down with superior weapons. Under cover of his native bush he could harry the retreating whites from day to day. And he did.Very different the appearance of this group of weary, half-starved men, fighting its way with indomitable courage and resource, through the thick bush and over donga-seamed ground, and among rough granite hillocks, to that of the smart, light-hearted fellows, repelling each fierce rush of the Matabele impis, in the skilfully constructed waggon laagers. Every rise surmounted revealed but the same heart-breaking stretch of bush and rocks, and dongas through which the precious Maxims had to be hauled at any expenditure of labour and time—to be borne rather, for the carriages of the said guns had been abandoned as superfluous lumber—and all through the steamy heat of the day the roar of the swollen river on the one hand never far from their ears—and, overhead, that of the thunder-burst, which should condemn them to pass a drenched and shivering night. For this expedition, with the great over-weening British self-confidence which has set this restless little island in the forefront of the nations—has started to effect with so many—or rather so few—men, what might or might not have been effected with just four times the number—in a word has started to do the impossible and—has not done it.“Well, Percy, do you still wish this fun wasn’t going to be over quite so quickly?”“No. Yet I don’t know. I suppose it’s only right to see some of the rougher side, as well as the smooth,” answered the young fellow pluckily—though truth to tell his weariness and exhaustion were as great as that of anybody else. There was the same hollow, wistful look in his face, the same hardened and brick-dust bronze too, and his hands were not guiltless of veldt-sores, for he had borne his full share both of the hardships and the fighting and was as thoroughly seasoned by now as any of them.“I was something of a prophet when I told you the toughest part of the campaign was to come, eh?” said Blachland, filling up his pipe with nearly the last shreds of dust remaining in his pouch.“Rather. I seem to forget what it feels like not to be shot at every day of my life,” was the answer. “And this beastly horseflesh! Faugh!”“Man! That’s nothing,” said Sybrandt, his mouth full of the delicacy alluded to, while he replaced a large slice of the same upon the embers to cook a little more. “What price having to eat snake?”“No. I’d draw the line at that,” answered Percival quickly.“Would you? Wait until you’re stuck on a little island for three days with your boat drifted away, and a river swarming with crocodiles all round you. You’d scoff snake fast enough, and be glad to get him.”“Tell us the yarn,” said Percival wearily.But before the other could comply, a message from the officer in command arrived desiring his presence, and Sybrandt, snatching another great mouthful of his broiling horseflesh, got up and went.“Another wet night, I’m afraid?” said Blachland philosophically, reaching for a red-hot stick to light his pipe, which the rain dripping from his weather-beaten hat-brim was doing its best to put out. “Here, have a smoke, Spence,” becoming alive to the wistful glance wherewith he whom he had named was regarding the puffs he was emitting.Spence stretched forth his hand eagerly for the pouch, then thrust it back again.“No. It’s your last pipe,” he said. “I won’t take it.”“Take it, man. I expect there’s a good accumulation of ’bacco dust in my old coat pockets. I can fall back on that at a pinch.”Spence complied, less out of selfishness than an unwillingness to go against the other in any single detail. A curious change had come over him since his rescue—since the man he had wronged, as he thought, had ridden into the very jaws of death to bring him out. He regarded his rescuer now with feelings akin to veneration. He had at the time, expressed his sorrow and regret in shamefaced tones, but Blachland had met him with the equable reassurance that it didn’t matter. And then he had eagerly volunteered for this expedition because Blachland was in it, and once there, he had watched his rescuer with untiring pertinacity to see if there was nothing he could do for him, even if he could risk his life for him. More than once he had striven stealthily to forego his own scanty rations when they were messing together, pretending he loathed food, so that there might be a little more for this man whom he now regarded in the light of a god; but this and other attempts had been seen through by their object, and effectually, though tactfully, frustrated. Hunger and exhaustion, however, are somewhat of an antidote to even the finest of finer feelings, and Justin Spence was destined to experience the truth of this.The patrol was resting. Thick bush surrounded the position, with long grass and boulders. But the ground had been well scouted in advance: and in rear—well, the strength of the command was distributed in that direction. There were granite kopjes, too, which could be turned to good account.“Whau!” grunted Ziboza, the fighting induna of the Ingubu regiment. “I think we have them now. They have no more waggons to hide behind, and theizikwakwaare broken down, for did we not find their wheels? These are they who would have captured the Great Great One. We shall see, ah—ah! Now we shall see.”Squirming like snakes through the long grass and bush, the Matabele advance, stopping every now and again to reconnoitre. They can hear the subdued hum of voices in the sorry camp of the whites—and on each face raised to peer forward, there is a ferocious grin of anticipation. In obedience to the signalled orders of their leaders they spread their ranks, so as to be in a position to surround that sorry command with the first order issued. More and more are pressing on from behind—and the bush is alive with swarming savages, creeping, crawling onward. The dreadedizikwakwaare broken now. They have only to fear the ordinary fire of that handful of whites, to surround them, rush in and make an end.Of a truth the agency that supplied Lo Bengula with firearms was a far-seeing benefactor to its countrymen. For those warriors now in the front line of attack who have rifles, no power on earth can restrain from using them. They now open fire, hot and heavy but wild. No more surprise now, no wild rush of overwhelming numbers with the deadly assegai. Thecoup-de-mainhas failed. Like magic the whites are in position, replying with sparing, but deadly and well-directed fire—as the plunge and fall of more than one warrior flitting from bush to bush, testifies. But the forward rush has carried some right among the remaining horses of the patrol, and the assegai is plied with deadly effect, as the savages slash right and left, burying their reeking blades within the vitals of the poor animals. It is something to kill at any rate, and besides, goes for towards crippling the movements of their human enemies. “Jjí-jjí!Jjí-jjí!” the ferocious death-hiss vibrates amid the trampling and squealing and the fall of the slaughtered animals. And then—what is this? Through and above the discharge of rifles, the sharp, staccato, barking sound so known to them, so dreaded by them—as the Maxims speak. Is there no doing anything with these invulnerable whites? They have left the wheels behind, even as brave Ziboza has just said, but—they have mounted theizikwakwaon sticks, eachon three sticks, and the deadly muzzles are sweeping round as usual, pouring in their leaden hail.“Percy—Spence! Up here, quick!” says Blachland—and in a moment they are within the sheltering boulders of a kopje. Two other men are already there.“Au!Isipau!” cry some of the Matabele, who have seen and recognised him. And a sharp discharge follows, at least two of the missiles humming unpleasantly near.“Watch that point!” says Blachland grimly, designating a spot where a bit of bare rock surface, the length of a man, showed out in the bush beneath. And almost with the words his piece went off. A brown, writhing body rolled forward from the cover, the flung away shield and assegais falling with a rattle.“That scalp yours, Blachland,” observed one of the American scouts who was up there with them. “Oh, snakes!”The last ejaculation is evoked by an uncomfortably near missile, which grazing the granite slab immediately behind the speaker, hums away at a tangent into space. It is followed by another and another: in fact a settled determination to make it hot for the holders of that particular kopje upon the part of the enemy seems to have followed upon the recognition of Blachland.“Lie close, you fellows!” warns the latter. “Hallo! That’s Sybrandt signalling me. It’s an old hunting call of ours,” as a peculiar chirping whistle travels over from an adjacent granite pile. “Ah, I thought so.” Quick as thought he has wormed himself behind another stone and now peeps forth. Below, a couple of hundred yards distant, dark forms are crawling. The bush is thinner there, and the object of the savages is to pass this, with a view to extending the surround. Blachland and the American have both taken in this, and the thud and gurgling groans following on the simultaneous crash of their pieces tell that they have taken it in to some purpose. At the same time a cross fire from among the boulders where Sybrandt and some others are lying, throws the Matabele into a momentary but demoralising muddle of consternation.The rain has ceased, but in the damp air the smoke hangs heavy over the dark heads of the bushes. Down in the camp, the sullen splutter of rifles, and ever and anon the angry, knock-like bark of the Maxims. There is a lull, but again and again the firing bursts forth. With undaunted persistency the savages return to the assault, howling out jeering taunts at those who a short while back they reckoned as sure and easy prey—but with dogged pertinacity the defence is kept up. One man falls dead while serving a Maxim, and several more horses are shot.At length the firing slackens. The enemy seem to have had enough. Quickly the orders are passed round. Those in the kopjes are to remain there, covering the retreat of the rest of the patrol, until this shall have gained better ground some little way beyond.Then the very heavens above took part in the fight, and in a trice the deafening, stunning thunder crashes rendered the sputter of the volleys as the noise of mere popguns, and the lurid blinding glare of lightning, pouring down in rivers of sheeting flame, put out the flash of man’s puny weapons.“This is rather more risky than their bullets, eh Hilary?” remarked Percival West, involuntarily shrinking down from one of these awful flashes.“Gun barrels are a good conductor,” was the grimly consolatory reply.So, too, are assegai blades. In the midst of that stunning awful crash that seems to split open the world, five Matabele warriors are lying, mangled, fused into all shapes—and shapelessness—while nearly twice that number besides are lying stunned, as though smitten with a blow of a knob-kerrie.“Mamo!” cries Ziboza, who is just outside the limit of this destruction, himself unsteady from the shock. “Lo, the very heavens above are fighting on the side of these whites!”

The patrol held on its retreat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell us the yarn,” said Percival wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Five.A Sublime Lie.“Trooper Skelsey missing, sir.”Such the terse report. The patrol had continued its retreat the night through, taking advantage of the known aversion of the Matabele—in common, by the way, with pretty nearly all other savages—to fighting in the dark. Now it was just daybreak, and the muster had been called—with the above result.Where had he last been seen? Nobody knew exactly. He had formed one of the party left as a rear-guard. Sybrandt had, however, exchanged a few words with him since they had all rejoined the patrol. Some declared they had seen him since, but, as to time a general mistiness prevailed.“Well, I can’t send back for him,” pronounced the commanding officer curtly. “He must take his chance. I’m not going to risk other men’s lives for the sake of one, and seriously weaken the patrol into the bargain.”“If you don’t mind, Major,” said Blachland, who was standing by, “I’ll ride a mile or two back. I believe I can pick him up, and I’ve got the best horse of the few left us.”“Guess you’ll need him,” interjected the American scout.“Well, I can’t give you any men, Blachland,” said the Major. “No, not one single man. You go at your own risk.”“I’ll take that. I’ve been into tighter corners before.”Here several men volunteered, including Percival West. These were curtly dismissed.“I don’t want you, Percy,” said Blachland. “In fact I wouldn’t have you at any price—excuse my saying so.” And there was a laugh, in the midst of which the young fellow gave way to the inevitable.But there was another man who proved less amenable, and that was Justin Spence.“Do let me go, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Skelsey and I prospected together once.”There was a momentary awkwardness, for all knew that since they had been in the field together the missing man had refused to exchange a word with his former chum and partner, whom he declared, had behaved like an utter cad. In short Skelsey had proved more implacable than the man presumably most injured.“No. Return to your duty at once.”“I’ll blow my brains out then, and you’ll lose one more man at any rate.”“Place Corporal Spence under arrest immediately,” said the Major sternly.“Don’t be a fool, Spence,” said Blachland kindly. “You’d be more hindrance than help to me really—and so would any one except Sybrandt, but we can’t take two scouts away at once.”The commanding officer thought so too, and was in a correspondingly bad humour. But Blachland was far too valuable a man to gainsay in a matter of this kind, besides, he had a knack of getting his way. Now having got it, he lost no time in preparations or farewells. He simply started.“His contract’s too big,” said the American, presently. “Guess we’ve nearly seen the last of him.”“He’ll come through, you’ll see,” rejoined Sybrandt, confidently.The while Blachland was riding along the backward track: not quite on it, but rather above, where possible; scanning every point with lynx-eyed vigilance. Once a glimpse of something lying across the track caused his pulses to beat quicker. Cautiously he rode down to it. Only an old sack dropped during the march. The spoor of the patrol was plain enough, but he remembered that the missing man suffered from fever, and had been slightly wounded during the earlier stages of the campaign. The possibilities were all that he had been overtaken with sudden faintness and had collapsed, unperceived by the rest—in which case a lonely and desolate end here in the wilds, even if the more merciful assegai of the savage did not cut short his lingerings. And he himself had been too near such an end, deserted and alone, not to know the horror of it.No blame whatever was due to the commanding officer in refusing to send back—indeed he was perfectly right in so doing. The rules of war, like those of life, are stern and pitiless. For many days the patrol had fought its way through swarming enemies, and in all probability, would have to again. Weakened in strength, in supplies, and at this stage, with ammunition none too plentiful, its leaders could not afford to weaken it still further, and delay its advance, and risk another conflict, with the ultimate chance of possible massacre, for the sake of one man. That much was certain. And he, Hilary Blachland, who at one time would have endorsed the hard necessity without a qualm, hardened, ruthless, inexorable, why should he run such grave and deadly risk for the sake of one man who was only an acquaintance after all—yet here he was doing so as a matter of course. What had changed him? He knew.And the risk was great—deadly indeed. The savages had hung upon the rear of the patrol right up to the fall of night, and the subsequent retreat. The bush was full of them, and in unknown numbers. It was to him a marvel and a mystery that he had as yet sighted none. Other sign, too, did not escape his practised understanding. There was no game about, none whatever—and even the birds flitting from spray to spray were abnormally shy and wild. Now he could locate, some way ahead of him, the scene of yesterday’s fight.Then an idea struck him. What if the missing man, confused by the spoor, had made for the river bank, intending to follow it? Deflecting to his right he crossed the track, and rode along it on the farther edge, minutely examining the ground.Ha! Just as he thought. Footmarks—the imprint of boots—very ragged, half soleless boots—the footprints of one man. These turned out of the spoor, and slightly at right angles took the direction of the river bank. There was no difficulty whatever in following them. In the deep, soft ground, rendered almost boggy in parts by the recent and continuous rains, their imprint was as the face of an open book. Blachland’s heart rose exceedingly. He would soon find the wanderer, mount him behind him on his horse and bring him back safely.Then another thought struck him. Skelsey was no raw Britisher. He was a Natal man, and had been up-country, prospecting, for the last two or three years. Why the deuce then should he be unable to follow a plain broad spoor, for this seemed the only way of accounting for his deflection? Well, he would very soon overtake him now, so it didn’t matter.Didn’t it? What was this? And Blachland, pulling in his horse, sat there in his saddle, his face feeling cold and white under its warm bronze. For now there were other footmarks and many of them. And these were the marks of naked feet.They seemed to have clustered together in a confused pattern, all around the first spoor. It was as plain as the title page of a book. They had struck the two foot marks here and had halted to consult. Then they had gone on again—not along the first spoor, but diagonally from it.He himself adopted the same course, taking the other side of the single spoor. In this way if the missing man were travelling straight he would reach him first—would reach him and bear him off before the destroyers now pursuing him like hounds should run into him. But it would be a near thing.The dull hoarse roar of the swollen river sounded close in front. Louder and louder it grew. The missing man could not be far ahead now. Rising in his stirrups he gazed anxiously around. No sign. He dared not shout. The band of Matabele who were in pursuit of Skelsey could not be far distant on his left. He was almost on the river bank, and still no sign of the fugitive. Well, the roar of the water would prevent his voice from reaching far—anyhow he would risk it.“Skelsey! Where are you?” he called, but not loudly. “Skelsey!”He listened intently. Was that an answer? Something between a cry and a groan—and—it was behind him.He turned his horse, and as he did so, the thought occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap—that the savages might already have butchered his comrade, and be lying in wait to take him with the least trouble and risk to themselves. Well, he must chance it, and the chances were about even.“Skelsey! Where are you, old chap?” he called again in a low tone.This time an answer came, but faintly.“Here.”Lying under a bush was the missing man. He raised his head feebly, and gazed with lack-lustre eyes at his would-be rescuer.“Get up behind me, quick!” said the latter.“Can’t. I’ve sprained my ankle. Can’t stand. I was going to crawl to the river and end it all.”“Well, you’ve got to ride instead. Come, I’ll give you a hand. Quick, man! There are a lot of Matabele after you, I struck their spoors.”The while he had been helping the other to rise. Skelsey groaned and ground his teeth with the pain. He was exhausted too, with starvation.“Can’t help it. You must pull yourself together,” said Blachland, hoisting him into the saddle and himself mounting behind. “Now stick tight on for all you know how, for we’ve got to run for it.”“Ping-ping!” A bullet hummed overhead, then another. The horse snorted and plunged forward, nearly falling. The ground was rough, the condition of the animal indifferent, and the double burden considerably too much for his strength. There followed another crash or two of rifles from behind, then no more. The savages reckoned their prey secure. They could easily distance a lean horse, badly overloaded, on such ground as this, without further expenditure of ammunition. Now they streamed forward through the bush to overtake and butcher the two fugitives.Of the above Blachland was as fully aware as the pursuers themselves. There was no safety for two, not a ghost of a chance of it. For one there was a chance, and it fairly good. Which was that one to be?“Jjí—Jjí!—Jjí—jjí!” The hideous battle-hiss vibrated upon the air in deep-toned stridency. A glance over his shoulder. He could see the foremost of the savages ranging up nearer and nearer, assegais gripped ready to run in and stab. Which was that one to be?In the flash of that awful moment a vision of Lyn rose before him—Lyn, in her fair, sweet, golden-haired beauty. Was he never to see her again? Why not? A loosening of his hold of the man in the saddle in front of him, a slight push, and he himself was almost certainly safe. No human eye would witness the deed, least of all would it ever be suspected. On the contrary, all would bear witness how he had ridden back into grave peril to try and rescue a missing comrade, and Lyn would approve—and even a happiness he had hardly as yet dared dream of might still be his. And—it should.“Can you stick on if I don’t have to hold you, Skelsey?”“Yes. I think so. I’m sure I can.”“Well, then, stick on for God’s sake, and go,” was the quick eager rejoinder. “I’m hit in two places—mortally. I’m dead already, but you needn’t be. Good-bye.”He slid to the ground. The horse, relieved of its double burden, shot forward, its pace accelerated by a stone, lightly hurled by its late owner, which struck it on the hindquarters. A glance convinced him that his comrade was now in comparative safely, and Hilary Blachland turned to await the onrushing mass of his ruthless foes—single-handed, alone, and—as yet, absolutely unhurt. His temptation had been sharp, searching and fiery. But his triumph was complete.

“Trooper Skelsey missing, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Return to your duty at once.”

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

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

“Don’t be a fool, Spence,” said Blachland kindly. “You’d be more hindrance than help to me really—and so would any one except Sybrandt, but we can’t take two scouts away at once.”

The commanding officer thought so too, and was in a correspondingly bad humour. But Blachland was far too valuable a man to gainsay in a matter of this kind, besides, he had a knack of getting his way. Now having got it, he lost no time in preparations or farewells. He simply started.

“His contract’s too big,” said the American, presently. “Guess we’ve nearly seen the last of him.”

“He’ll come through, you’ll see,” rejoined Sybrandt, confidently.

The while Blachland was riding along the backward track: not quite on it, but rather above, where possible; scanning every point with lynx-eyed vigilance. Once a glimpse of something lying across the track caused his pulses to beat quicker. Cautiously he rode down to it. Only an old sack dropped during the march. The spoor of the patrol was plain enough, but he remembered that the missing man suffered from fever, and had been slightly wounded during the earlier stages of the campaign. The possibilities were all that he had been overtaken with sudden faintness and had collapsed, unperceived by the rest—in which case a lonely and desolate end here in the wilds, even if the more merciful assegai of the savage did not cut short his lingerings. And he himself had been too near such an end, deserted and alone, not to know the horror of it.

No blame whatever was due to the commanding officer in refusing to send back—indeed he was perfectly right in so doing. The rules of war, like those of life, are stern and pitiless. For many days the patrol had fought its way through swarming enemies, and in all probability, would have to again. Weakened in strength, in supplies, and at this stage, with ammunition none too plentiful, its leaders could not afford to weaken it still further, and delay its advance, and risk another conflict, with the ultimate chance of possible massacre, for the sake of one man. That much was certain. And he, Hilary Blachland, who at one time would have endorsed the hard necessity without a qualm, hardened, ruthless, inexorable, why should he run such grave and deadly risk for the sake of one man who was only an acquaintance after all—yet here he was doing so as a matter of course. What had changed him? He knew.

And the risk was great—deadly indeed. The savages had hung upon the rear of the patrol right up to the fall of night, and the subsequent retreat. The bush was full of them, and in unknown numbers. It was to him a marvel and a mystery that he had as yet sighted none. Other sign, too, did not escape his practised understanding. There was no game about, none whatever—and even the birds flitting from spray to spray were abnormally shy and wild. Now he could locate, some way ahead of him, the scene of yesterday’s fight.

Then an idea struck him. What if the missing man, confused by the spoor, had made for the river bank, intending to follow it? Deflecting to his right he crossed the track, and rode along it on the farther edge, minutely examining the ground.

Ha! Just as he thought. Footmarks—the imprint of boots—very ragged, half soleless boots—the footprints of one man. These turned out of the spoor, and slightly at right angles took the direction of the river bank. There was no difficulty whatever in following them. In the deep, soft ground, rendered almost boggy in parts by the recent and continuous rains, their imprint was as the face of an open book. Blachland’s heart rose exceedingly. He would soon find the wanderer, mount him behind him on his horse and bring him back safely.

Then another thought struck him. Skelsey was no raw Britisher. He was a Natal man, and had been up-country, prospecting, for the last two or three years. Why the deuce then should he be unable to follow a plain broad spoor, for this seemed the only way of accounting for his deflection? Well, he would very soon overtake him now, so it didn’t matter.

Didn’t it? What was this? And Blachland, pulling in his horse, sat there in his saddle, his face feeling cold and white under its warm bronze. For now there were other footmarks and many of them. And these were the marks of naked feet.

They seemed to have clustered together in a confused pattern, all around the first spoor. It was as plain as the title page of a book. They had struck the two foot marks here and had halted to consult. Then they had gone on again—not along the first spoor, but diagonally from it.

He himself adopted the same course, taking the other side of the single spoor. In this way if the missing man were travelling straight he would reach him first—would reach him and bear him off before the destroyers now pursuing him like hounds should run into him. But it would be a near thing.

The dull hoarse roar of the swollen river sounded close in front. Louder and louder it grew. The missing man could not be far ahead now. Rising in his stirrups he gazed anxiously around. No sign. He dared not shout. The band of Matabele who were in pursuit of Skelsey could not be far distant on his left. He was almost on the river bank, and still no sign of the fugitive. Well, the roar of the water would prevent his voice from reaching far—anyhow he would risk it.

“Skelsey! Where are you?” he called, but not loudly. “Skelsey!”

He listened intently. Was that an answer? Something between a cry and a groan—and—it was behind him.

He turned his horse, and as he did so, the thought occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap—that the savages might already have butchered his comrade, and be lying in wait to take him with the least trouble and risk to themselves. Well, he must chance it, and the chances were about even.

“Skelsey! Where are you, old chap?” he called again in a low tone.

This time an answer came, but faintly.

“Here.”

Lying under a bush was the missing man. He raised his head feebly, and gazed with lack-lustre eyes at his would-be rescuer.

“Get up behind me, quick!” said the latter.

“Can’t. I’ve sprained my ankle. Can’t stand. I was going to crawl to the river and end it all.”

“Well, you’ve got to ride instead. Come, I’ll give you a hand. Quick, man! There are a lot of Matabele after you, I struck their spoors.”

The while he had been helping the other to rise. Skelsey groaned and ground his teeth with the pain. He was exhausted too, with starvation.

“Can’t help it. You must pull yourself together,” said Blachland, hoisting him into the saddle and himself mounting behind. “Now stick tight on for all you know how, for we’ve got to run for it.”

“Ping-ping!” A bullet hummed overhead, then another. The horse snorted and plunged forward, nearly falling. The ground was rough, the condition of the animal indifferent, and the double burden considerably too much for his strength. There followed another crash or two of rifles from behind, then no more. The savages reckoned their prey secure. They could easily distance a lean horse, badly overloaded, on such ground as this, without further expenditure of ammunition. Now they streamed forward through the bush to overtake and butcher the two fugitives.

Of the above Blachland was as fully aware as the pursuers themselves. There was no safety for two, not a ghost of a chance of it. For one there was a chance, and it fairly good. Which was that one to be?

“Jjí—Jjí!—Jjí—jjí!” The hideous battle-hiss vibrated upon the air in deep-toned stridency. A glance over his shoulder. He could see the foremost of the savages ranging up nearer and nearer, assegais gripped ready to run in and stab. Which was that one to be?

In the flash of that awful moment a vision of Lyn rose before him—Lyn, in her fair, sweet, golden-haired beauty. Was he never to see her again? Why not? A loosening of his hold of the man in the saddle in front of him, a slight push, and he himself was almost certainly safe. No human eye would witness the deed, least of all would it ever be suspected. On the contrary, all would bear witness how he had ridden back into grave peril to try and rescue a missing comrade, and Lyn would approve—and even a happiness he had hardly as yet dared dream of might still be his. And—it should.

“Can you stick on if I don’t have to hold you, Skelsey?”

“Yes. I think so. I’m sure I can.”

“Well, then, stick on for God’s sake, and go,” was the quick eager rejoinder. “I’m hit in two places—mortally. I’m dead already, but you needn’t be. Good-bye.”

He slid to the ground. The horse, relieved of its double burden, shot forward, its pace accelerated by a stone, lightly hurled by its late owner, which struck it on the hindquarters. A glance convinced him that his comrade was now in comparative safely, and Hilary Blachland turned to await the onrushing mass of his ruthless foes—single-handed, alone, and—as yet, absolutely unhurt. His temptation had been sharp, searching and fiery. But his triumph was complete.

Chapter Six.His Triumph.In uttering that sublime lie, Hilary Blachland had set the seal to his triumph.But for it his comrade would have refused to leave him, on that point he was sure, whereas to throw away his life for one who was dead already, would be an act of sheer lunacy on Skelsey’s part. One must die or both, and he had elected to be that one. Yet the actual horror and sting of the death which now stared him in the face was indescribably terrible.Instinctively he took cover behind a stone—for the ground here was open and broken. The Matabele, reckoning him a sure prey sooner or later, had stayed their forward rush, and, halting within the bush line, began to parley, and not altogether without reason, for there was something rather formidable in the aspect of this well-armed man, who although but one against their swarming numbers, was manifestly determined to sell his life very dearly indeed. They had some experience as to what that meant—and recently.“Ho, Isipau!” called out a great voice. “Come now and talk with some of your old friends.”“I think not, Ziboza,” came the answer. “For the looks of most of you are not friendly.”“Are you come to capture the Great Great One, Isipau?” jeered another voice, and a shout of derision backed up the words.“No. I came to find a comrade who was left behind sick. I have found him—and now,amadoda, when I return I can speak more than one good word on behalf of the Great Great One, and of those who suffered me to return when they might have given me some trouble.”“When thou returnest, Isipau!” roared several of the young warriors with a burst of mocking laughter. “When thou returnest!Au! But that will be never.”“Nobody knows. I do not—you do not. But it will be better for all here if I do return.”For a while there was no response, save another burst of laughter. Then Ziboza spoke:“Come now over to us, Isipau. We will take thee to the Black Elephant.”Blachland pondered. Could he trust them? If they actually meant to take him to the King, then indeed he stood a good chance, for he did not believe that Lo Bengula would allow him to be harmed, and he did believe that once face to face with him he could persuade the fugitive King to surrender. But could he trust them, that was the crux?Rapidly he ran over the situation within his mind. This Ziboza he knew fairly well as an inveterate hater of the whites, one of those moreover who had perpetually urged upon Lo Bengula the necessity of murdering all white men in his country. He thought too, of the moment, when disarmed and helpless, he should stand at their mercy, and what that “mercy” would mean why more than one act of hideous barbarity which he himself had witnessed, was sufficient to remind him. Moreover, even while thus balancing probabilities, certain scraps of smothered conversation reached his ears. That decided him. He would not place himself within their power. It only remained to sell his life dearly.If only it were near the close of the day, he could hold them off for a while, and perhaps, under cover of darkness, escape. But it was hardly yet full noon. They could get round him and rake him with a cross fire. Bad marksmen as they were, they could hardly go on missing him all day.“Come then, Isipau!” called out Ziboza. “Lay down thy weapons and come.”“No. Go ye now away and leave me. Peace is not far distant and many good words will I speak for you because of this day.”A jeering roar, now of rage, now of disappointment, greeted his words. At the same time Blachland sighted one of them kneeling down with his piece levelled, and taking deliberate aim at him. An instinct moved him to drop down behind the stone, and the instinct was a true one, for as he did so a bullet sang through the spot where his head and shoulders had been but a fraction of a second before. Two others hummed over him, but high.He put his hat up above the stone, holding it by the brim. “Whigge!”—another bullet hummed by, almost grazing it.“Some devil there can shoot, anyway,” he growled to himself. “If only I could get a glint of him. Ah!”A stratagem had occurred to him. He managed to fix the hat just so that the top of it should project, then creeping to the edge of the boulder, he peered round, his piece sighted and ready. Just as he thought. The head and shoulders of a savage, taking aim at the hat—and then with the crash of his own rifle that savage was spinning round and turning a convulsive somersault, shot fair and square through the head. His slayer set his teeth, with a growl that was half exulting, half a curse. His foes were going to find that they had cornered a lion indeed—so much he could promise them.The mutterings of wrath and dismay which arose among them over this neat shot, were drowned in a furious volley. Every man who possessed a firearm seemed animated with a kind of frenzied desire to discharge it as quickly and as often as possible at and around the rock behind which he lay. For a few moments the position was very sultry indeed. It might have been worse but that the moral of that deadly shot rendered his assailants exceedingly unwilling to leave their cover or expose themselves in any way.On his right the river bank was but a couple of hundred yards, and running up from this was a bush-fringed donga, which might be any or no depth, but which ended at about half that distance. Upon this Blachland had got his eye and was puzzling out as to how he might turn it to account. Now he discovered that the same idea was occurring to his assailants, for although the intervening space was almost devoid of bush, the grass was long and tangled from the bush line to the chasm, and it was shaking and quivering in a very suspicious manner.“Great minds jump together,” he muttered grimly, all his attention centred on this point, and entirely disregarding a terrific fire which was suddenly opened upon him, with the object, he suspected, of diverting it. “Just as I thought.”One glimpse only, of the naked, crawling savage, flattened to the earth, but even that was sufficient. The thud of the bullet ploughing through ribs and vitals, was music to his ears as that savage flattened out more completely, beating the earth in his death throes; and a very shout of exultant snarling laughter escaped him—mingling with the roar of rage that went up from his enemies. He was growing terrible now—ferocious, bloodthirsty, as his ruthless foes, yet cool and firm as the rock behind which he lay.“Two shots, two birds!” he exclaimed. “If I can keep on at this rate it’s good enough.”The assailants were now mad with rage. They howled out taunts and jeers, and blood-curdling promises of the vengeance they would wreak upon him when they got him into their power. At this he laughed—laughed long and loud.“That will be never!” he cried. “Ho, Ziboza, thou valiant fighting induna. How many of the King’s hunting dogs does it take to pull down one lion? Are the Ingubu all killed or have they driven thee from their midst to follow a new leader? But I tell thee, Ziboza, thou art a dead man this day. I may be, but thou art surely.”“Ah—ah—’Sipau!” snarled the chief. “It is easy to boast, but thou art cornered. We have thee now.”“Not yet. And a cornered animal is a dangerous one. Come and take me.”To this interchange of amenities succeeded a lull. Clearly they were planning some fresh surprise. And then Blachland started, with a pang of sharp pain. His left hand was streaming blood. Then his spirits rose again. It was only a cut. A splinter of stone, chipped by one of their bullets, had struck him, but the wound was a trivial one. With the discovery, however, came another, and one which was by no means trivial. The bullet had been fired at a different angle from those hitherto. The ground on the left front rose slightly. His enemies were getting round him on that side. Soon he would be exposed to a complete flanking fire.The worst of it was that in that direction he could see nobody. The cover was too good. He wondered they had not occupied this before, unless it were that they deemed it of the highest importance to cut off all chance of his escape by the river. Yet what chance had he there? A mere choice of deaths, for it was rolling down in flood, and between this and their fire from the bank, why, there was none at all.And now the sun, which had been shining warm and glowing above this scene of stern and deadly strife, upon the beleaguered man, desperate, fighting to the last, beset by a swarm of persistent and ruthless foes—suddenly grew dark. A shadow had curtained its face, black and lowering. Blachland sent a hasty glance upward. One of those storms, almost of daily occurrence now in the rainy season, would shortly break over them. Would it bring him any advantage, however trifling—was his eager thought? At any rate it could not alter his position for the worse. And the hoarse and sullen boom of thunder mingled with the vengeful spit of the rifles of his enemies, now more frequent and more deadly because taking him from a new and almost unprotected quarter.Ha! What was this? Under cover of this last diversion his enemies had been stealing up. They were coming on in dozens, in scores, from the first point of attack. Selecting two of the foremost, one behind the other, he fired—and his aim was true, but at the same time his rifle fell from his grasp, and his arm and shoulder felt as though crushed beneath a waggon wheel. With fiendish yells, drowning the gasping cry of the stricken warriors, the whole body of them poured forward. At the same time, those on the rise behind, left their cover, and charged down upon him, rending the air with their ear-splitting whistles.He saw what had happened. The rifle had been struck by a bullet, and the concussion had for the moment paralysed him. Only for the moment though. Quick as the vivid flash which flamed down upon him from the now darkened heavens, his mind was made up. With a suddenness and a fleetness which took even his enemies by surprise, he had broken from his cover, and was racing headlong for the point of the donga which led down to the river.In a second he will gain it. They cannot fire, every nerve is strained to overtake him, to head him off. He sees their foremost line. Now it is in front of him. No, not quite! His revolver is out, and the heavy bullet crashes almost point blank through the foremost. Another springs up in front of him, a gigantic warrior, his broad spear upraised. Before it can descend the fugitive is upon him, and the momentum is too great. Grappled together they topple over the edge, and go crashing down, the white man and the savage, into unknown depths.The bushes close over their heads and they are in almost total darkness. There is a mighty splash of water and both are engulfed—yet, still grappled, they rise to the surface again, and the blue glare of the lightning, darting down, reveals the slanting earth walls of the chasm, reveals to each the face of the other as they rise above the turgid water, gasping and sputtering. The savage has lost his assegai in the fall, and the white man is groping hungrily, eagerly, for his sheath knife.“Ah, ah! Ziboza! Did I not tell thee thou wert dead?”“Not yet, dog Makiwa!” growls the other, in the ferocity of desperation striving to bury his great teeth in his adversary’s face. But Blachland is in condition as hard as steel, and far more at home in the water than the Matabele chief, so while gripping the latter by the wrists, he ducks his head beneath the surface, endeavouring to drown him if possible. He dare not let go his hold lest he should be the one grasped, and those above dare not fire down for fear of shooting their chief—even if they could see the contending parties—which they cannot. But the awful reverberations of the thunder-peal boom and shiver within that pit as of hell, and the lightnings gleam upon the brown turgid surface, and the straining faces of the combatants are even as those of striving fiends.They touch ground now, then lose it again, for the bottom is but a foothold of slippery mud. Nearer, nearer to the main stream their struggles have carried them, until the sombre roar of the flood sounds deafening in their ears, and still the awful strife goes on.“Ah—ah, Ziboza. I told thee thou shouldst meet death this day.Ha! Nantzia! (that is it)Ha!”And with each throaty, bloodthirsty gasp he plunges the knife, which he has at last managed to free, into the body of the nearly exhausted chief, drawing it down finally in a terrible ripping stroke. A single gasping groan, and Ziboza sinks, as his adversary throws him from him. And then the said adversary knows no more. The swirl of the flood sweeping into the chasm, seems to rope him out, and the body of Hilary Blachland, together with that of his savage antagonist, is borne down within the raging rush of waters, rolling over and over on its way to the Zambesi and the sea.

In uttering that sublime lie, Hilary Blachland had set the seal to his triumph.

But for it his comrade would have refused to leave him, on that point he was sure, whereas to throw away his life for one who was dead already, would be an act of sheer lunacy on Skelsey’s part. One must die or both, and he had elected to be that one. Yet the actual horror and sting of the death which now stared him in the face was indescribably terrible.

Instinctively he took cover behind a stone—for the ground here was open and broken. The Matabele, reckoning him a sure prey sooner or later, had stayed their forward rush, and, halting within the bush line, began to parley, and not altogether without reason, for there was something rather formidable in the aspect of this well-armed man, who although but one against their swarming numbers, was manifestly determined to sell his life very dearly indeed. They had some experience as to what that meant—and recently.

“Ho, Isipau!” called out a great voice. “Come now and talk with some of your old friends.”

“I think not, Ziboza,” came the answer. “For the looks of most of you are not friendly.”

“Are you come to capture the Great Great One, Isipau?” jeered another voice, and a shout of derision backed up the words.

“No. I came to find a comrade who was left behind sick. I have found him—and now,amadoda, when I return I can speak more than one good word on behalf of the Great Great One, and of those who suffered me to return when they might have given me some trouble.”

“When thou returnest, Isipau!” roared several of the young warriors with a burst of mocking laughter. “When thou returnest!Au! But that will be never.”

“Nobody knows. I do not—you do not. But it will be better for all here if I do return.”

For a while there was no response, save another burst of laughter. Then Ziboza spoke:

“Come now over to us, Isipau. We will take thee to the Black Elephant.”

Blachland pondered. Could he trust them? If they actually meant to take him to the King, then indeed he stood a good chance, for he did not believe that Lo Bengula would allow him to be harmed, and he did believe that once face to face with him he could persuade the fugitive King to surrender. But could he trust them, that was the crux?

Rapidly he ran over the situation within his mind. This Ziboza he knew fairly well as an inveterate hater of the whites, one of those moreover who had perpetually urged upon Lo Bengula the necessity of murdering all white men in his country. He thought too, of the moment, when disarmed and helpless, he should stand at their mercy, and what that “mercy” would mean why more than one act of hideous barbarity which he himself had witnessed, was sufficient to remind him. Moreover, even while thus balancing probabilities, certain scraps of smothered conversation reached his ears. That decided him. He would not place himself within their power. It only remained to sell his life dearly.

If only it were near the close of the day, he could hold them off for a while, and perhaps, under cover of darkness, escape. But it was hardly yet full noon. They could get round him and rake him with a cross fire. Bad marksmen as they were, they could hardly go on missing him all day.

“Come then, Isipau!” called out Ziboza. “Lay down thy weapons and come.”

“No. Go ye now away and leave me. Peace is not far distant and many good words will I speak for you because of this day.”

A jeering roar, now of rage, now of disappointment, greeted his words. At the same time Blachland sighted one of them kneeling down with his piece levelled, and taking deliberate aim at him. An instinct moved him to drop down behind the stone, and the instinct was a true one, for as he did so a bullet sang through the spot where his head and shoulders had been but a fraction of a second before. Two others hummed over him, but high.

He put his hat up above the stone, holding it by the brim. “Whigge!”—another bullet hummed by, almost grazing it.

“Some devil there can shoot, anyway,” he growled to himself. “If only I could get a glint of him. Ah!”

A stratagem had occurred to him. He managed to fix the hat just so that the top of it should project, then creeping to the edge of the boulder, he peered round, his piece sighted and ready. Just as he thought. The head and shoulders of a savage, taking aim at the hat—and then with the crash of his own rifle that savage was spinning round and turning a convulsive somersault, shot fair and square through the head. His slayer set his teeth, with a growl that was half exulting, half a curse. His foes were going to find that they had cornered a lion indeed—so much he could promise them.

The mutterings of wrath and dismay which arose among them over this neat shot, were drowned in a furious volley. Every man who possessed a firearm seemed animated with a kind of frenzied desire to discharge it as quickly and as often as possible at and around the rock behind which he lay. For a few moments the position was very sultry indeed. It might have been worse but that the moral of that deadly shot rendered his assailants exceedingly unwilling to leave their cover or expose themselves in any way.

On his right the river bank was but a couple of hundred yards, and running up from this was a bush-fringed donga, which might be any or no depth, but which ended at about half that distance. Upon this Blachland had got his eye and was puzzling out as to how he might turn it to account. Now he discovered that the same idea was occurring to his assailants, for although the intervening space was almost devoid of bush, the grass was long and tangled from the bush line to the chasm, and it was shaking and quivering in a very suspicious manner.

“Great minds jump together,” he muttered grimly, all his attention centred on this point, and entirely disregarding a terrific fire which was suddenly opened upon him, with the object, he suspected, of diverting it. “Just as I thought.”

One glimpse only, of the naked, crawling savage, flattened to the earth, but even that was sufficient. The thud of the bullet ploughing through ribs and vitals, was music to his ears as that savage flattened out more completely, beating the earth in his death throes; and a very shout of exultant snarling laughter escaped him—mingling with the roar of rage that went up from his enemies. He was growing terrible now—ferocious, bloodthirsty, as his ruthless foes, yet cool and firm as the rock behind which he lay.

“Two shots, two birds!” he exclaimed. “If I can keep on at this rate it’s good enough.”

The assailants were now mad with rage. They howled out taunts and jeers, and blood-curdling promises of the vengeance they would wreak upon him when they got him into their power. At this he laughed—laughed long and loud.

“That will be never!” he cried. “Ho, Ziboza, thou valiant fighting induna. How many of the King’s hunting dogs does it take to pull down one lion? Are the Ingubu all killed or have they driven thee from their midst to follow a new leader? But I tell thee, Ziboza, thou art a dead man this day. I may be, but thou art surely.”

“Ah—ah—’Sipau!” snarled the chief. “It is easy to boast, but thou art cornered. We have thee now.”

“Not yet. And a cornered animal is a dangerous one. Come and take me.”

To this interchange of amenities succeeded a lull. Clearly they were planning some fresh surprise. And then Blachland started, with a pang of sharp pain. His left hand was streaming blood. Then his spirits rose again. It was only a cut. A splinter of stone, chipped by one of their bullets, had struck him, but the wound was a trivial one. With the discovery, however, came another, and one which was by no means trivial. The bullet had been fired at a different angle from those hitherto. The ground on the left front rose slightly. His enemies were getting round him on that side. Soon he would be exposed to a complete flanking fire.

The worst of it was that in that direction he could see nobody. The cover was too good. He wondered they had not occupied this before, unless it were that they deemed it of the highest importance to cut off all chance of his escape by the river. Yet what chance had he there? A mere choice of deaths, for it was rolling down in flood, and between this and their fire from the bank, why, there was none at all.

And now the sun, which had been shining warm and glowing above this scene of stern and deadly strife, upon the beleaguered man, desperate, fighting to the last, beset by a swarm of persistent and ruthless foes—suddenly grew dark. A shadow had curtained its face, black and lowering. Blachland sent a hasty glance upward. One of those storms, almost of daily occurrence now in the rainy season, would shortly break over them. Would it bring him any advantage, however trifling—was his eager thought? At any rate it could not alter his position for the worse. And the hoarse and sullen boom of thunder mingled with the vengeful spit of the rifles of his enemies, now more frequent and more deadly because taking him from a new and almost unprotected quarter.

Ha! What was this? Under cover of this last diversion his enemies had been stealing up. They were coming on in dozens, in scores, from the first point of attack. Selecting two of the foremost, one behind the other, he fired—and his aim was true, but at the same time his rifle fell from his grasp, and his arm and shoulder felt as though crushed beneath a waggon wheel. With fiendish yells, drowning the gasping cry of the stricken warriors, the whole body of them poured forward. At the same time, those on the rise behind, left their cover, and charged down upon him, rending the air with their ear-splitting whistles.

He saw what had happened. The rifle had been struck by a bullet, and the concussion had for the moment paralysed him. Only for the moment though. Quick as the vivid flash which flamed down upon him from the now darkened heavens, his mind was made up. With a suddenness and a fleetness which took even his enemies by surprise, he had broken from his cover, and was racing headlong for the point of the donga which led down to the river.

In a second he will gain it. They cannot fire, every nerve is strained to overtake him, to head him off. He sees their foremost line. Now it is in front of him. No, not quite! His revolver is out, and the heavy bullet crashes almost point blank through the foremost. Another springs up in front of him, a gigantic warrior, his broad spear upraised. Before it can descend the fugitive is upon him, and the momentum is too great. Grappled together they topple over the edge, and go crashing down, the white man and the savage, into unknown depths.

The bushes close over their heads and they are in almost total darkness. There is a mighty splash of water and both are engulfed—yet, still grappled, they rise to the surface again, and the blue glare of the lightning, darting down, reveals the slanting earth walls of the chasm, reveals to each the face of the other as they rise above the turgid water, gasping and sputtering. The savage has lost his assegai in the fall, and the white man is groping hungrily, eagerly, for his sheath knife.

“Ah, ah! Ziboza! Did I not tell thee thou wert dead?”

“Not yet, dog Makiwa!” growls the other, in the ferocity of desperation striving to bury his great teeth in his adversary’s face. But Blachland is in condition as hard as steel, and far more at home in the water than the Matabele chief, so while gripping the latter by the wrists, he ducks his head beneath the surface, endeavouring to drown him if possible. He dare not let go his hold lest he should be the one grasped, and those above dare not fire down for fear of shooting their chief—even if they could see the contending parties—which they cannot. But the awful reverberations of the thunder-peal boom and shiver within that pit as of hell, and the lightnings gleam upon the brown turgid surface, and the straining faces of the combatants are even as those of striving fiends.

They touch ground now, then lose it again, for the bottom is but a foothold of slippery mud. Nearer, nearer to the main stream their struggles have carried them, until the sombre roar of the flood sounds deafening in their ears, and still the awful strife goes on.

“Ah—ah, Ziboza. I told thee thou shouldst meet death this day.Ha! Nantzia! (that is it)Ha!”

And with each throaty, bloodthirsty gasp he plunges the knife, which he has at last managed to free, into the body of the nearly exhausted chief, drawing it down finally in a terrible ripping stroke. A single gasping groan, and Ziboza sinks, as his adversary throws him from him. And then the said adversary knows no more. The swirl of the flood sweeping into the chasm, seems to rope him out, and the body of Hilary Blachland, together with that of his savage antagonist, is borne down within the raging rush of waters, rolling over and over on its way to the Zambesi and the sea.

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