Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.The Zulu Again.“You’re going to do nothing of the kind, father,” said Edala, taking up the challenge. “I’m not going to have my aerial throne blown to blazes at all. Why it’s a curiosity—one of the sights. I bring everybody up here to see it.”“And to sit on it?” rejoined Elvesdon, mischievously.“Only that no one ever has, except you. Tell me. What did it feel like, for the first time?”Her straight, clear glance was full upon his face. He was thinking that ‘the first time’ felt uncommonly like being the last. But he answered:“Well, I don’t know. It was a queer experience—for the first time. To be absolutely candid I won’t pretend that I completely enjoyed it.”“I know you didn’t. I could see that your hand on the bough was not quite steady. That makes it all the more a big thing to have done.”“What did you yourself feel like the first time, Miss Thornhill, and—what on earth put the idea into your head?”“I felt just as I do now, how glorious it was being suspended in mid-air,”—the listener felt creepy in the calves of the legs, as the words brought back his own feelings. “What put it into my head? I was up here one day with another girl and it occurred to me it would be good fun to go and sit there, overhanging space. She didn’t believe I meant it, but I just climbed out on to the tree and sat there. She nearly fainted.”“Well, nerve isn’t a monopoly of our sex. Look at the wonderful things women do—diving from a ghastly height into a narrow tank—or looping the loop on a bicycle, and so on. By George! it’s enough to make your hair stand on end to watch them.”“We’ve missed the sunset,” cried Edala. “Never mind. You can see plenty of sunsets, but you can’t sit on my aerial throne every day. Why, where’s father?” looking around. “Oh, there; over by that flat rock.”Thornhill had strolled away while the two were talking and was standing, shading a match to light his pipe, when—“Inkose!”He started slightly. The mountain top was flat and he had seen no one on it but themselves. The salute, however, had proceeded from a tall native, who had risen from behind the flat boulder before mentioned.This man now advanced, and in the limp of his gait, the other recognised him as the Zulu. Then—Heavens and earth! He had wondered where he had seen him before. Now he knew.But it was ghastly. No, the thing could not be. It was only a striking likeness. Moonlight is untrustworthy—and now, this light up here in the afterglow of the sunset was dusking. The Zulu stood—contemplating him with a faint, ironical grin.“There are ‘mouths’ on this mountain top,” he began, “waiting to swallow up men—and women,” he added, with a glance at Edala who together with her companion had now come up. “Whau! it is easy to fall into such. There are those that only half swallow, and return their prey, such as that,”—pointing with his knobstick to the mouth of a crevice a few yards on the other side of the boulder. “Yet it may be that the prey though it returns to life does not do so unbitten. There are other ‘mouths’ who do not return their prey at all, and if it is sought for it is too late, for it is already dead.”To two of the listeners this bit of dark talking was intelligible because they were familiar with the tricks and turns of the Zulu language. The speaker merely meant to convey that some of the crevices were more dangerous than others. But to the third there was nothing ‘dark’ about it. And then, either from the fact—which no one but herself would have noticed—that her father’s voice had lost some of its imperturbability, or by some mysterious conjunction of weird telepathy—Edala began to think there must be some deeper, darker meaning underlying the words. All sorts of ghastly conjectures shot through her mind, but all vague, shadowy, nebulous. Through them she heard the voice of Elvesdon questioning the stranger.“Who are you?”“Manamandhla, son of Gwegula.”“Of the Zulu?”“Yeh-bo ’Nkose.”“And your chief—who is he?”“The Government.”“But your own chief?”“The King.”“Which king?” said Elvesdon, becoming ‘short.’“Au! are there then two kings? I had not heard that.”This answer given so quietly and innocently would have caused the other two to smile, only they were in no smiling mood.“But who is your chief in Zululand, your Zulu chief?” went on Elvesdon, growing impatient. But the deprecatory smile on the other’s face was beautiful to behold. He replied.“NowNkose, I would ask—Are there any chiefs in Zululand other than the Government? Not to-day—Government is our chief.”“Not Mehlo-ka-zulu?”“He is my relative.”Elvesdon burst out laughing.“Confound the fellow, he reminds one of the Irish witness in ‘Handy Andy’,” he said. Then to the Zulu: “Where is your kraal?”“La-pa. Over there.” And the speaker pointed with his stick in a direction which conveyed the idea that he resided anywhere between the further side of the valley and the North Pole.Elvesdon did not press the point, knowing perfectly well that he could find out all he wanted from other sources. Then, too, the deft way in which the Zulu fenced all his questions appealed strongly to his sense of the ridiculous. There was, moreover, nothing to be gained in particular by continuing his catechism; and One of the secrets of his success in the handling of natives was that he knew when to humour them and when to draw a tight rein.“Do you know who I am?” he said.“Inkoseis the magistrate—the new magistrate—at Kwabulazi.”“That is so. But new only as regards Kwabulazi,” returned Elvesdon meaningly. “So knowing who I am it is not surprising if I ask: ‘What has a Zulu from beyond the border to do in Babatyana’s location on this side?’”“Inkose—I have always heard that under the King’s rule all men are free, whether white or black, as long as they do no harm. And I am doing no harm.”“As long as they do no harm,” repeated Elvesdon, with a touch of significance. “That is well, Manamandhla—that is well.” And he turned away.“Where are these crevices, Miss Thornhill? It’s curious how they occur in some of these mountain ranges. I got into one myself once, but fortunately it wasn’t particularly deep, or I should be there still.”“Where was that?”“In the Cape Colony. I was there on leave, and put in a time with an old official pal of mine. We went reebok-shooting in the mountains, and I got into such a hole as one of these, stepped backwards into it. Fortunately my pal was near enough to hear me sing out, or I might not have been able to pull myself up.”“This is a deep one,” said Edala. “Come and look. If you drop a stone over, you hear it clanging against the sides ever so far down. Listen, now.”She dropped a stone over, and both stood listening.“By Jove, but it is deep,” said Elvesdon. “And beastly dangerous too, almost hidden in the grass.”Thornhill had not joined them. He was seated on the flat rock, puffing away at his pipe. The ghastliness of the situation was known to him and to one other there present—and here was this unthinking girl dropping stones into this particular cleft, of all others on that mountain top—of all others in the world.“That is one of the ‘mouths’ that gives not back its prey,” said the deep voice of Manamandhla. “Whau! It retains that which it swallows.” Then with a word of farewell greeting he withdrew, but in the opposite direction to that by which they had ascended.“Hadn’t we better go down?” said Thornhill. “It’ll be dark directly.”“And it’s shivery now,” said Edala, looking round with a shudder. “Come along.”By the time they were off the moss-grown natural stairway it was nearly dark. The horses, hitched to a bush by the bridles, shook themselves and whinnied at their approach.“What would be the effect of your ‘aerial throne’ by starlight, Miss Thornhill?” said Elvesdon, as they passed beneath the mighty cliff, whose loom cut straight and black against the myriad stars which came gushing out into the velvety vault.“I’ve never tried it. I believe I’d be afraid. You know—the Kafirs say the Sipazi mountain is haunted, that all sorts oftagatisounds float off from the top of it at night.”“You afraid? Why I don’t believe there’s anything in the world that could scareyou, after what I’ve seen.”“Oh isn’t there? I’m rather afraid of lightning, for one thing.”“Are you?”“Yes. You see, it’s a thing that no precaution on earth will guard you against. You can stick up conductors on a house, or any sort of building, but you can’t stick one on your hat, when you’re out in the open. I always feel so utterly helpless.”“Well, of course it’s risky. But you must remember the very small proportion of people who get hit compared with the numbers who spend a large slice of their lives exposed to it.”“So I do, but somehow it seems poor consolation when everything is fizzing and banging all round you and you expect every second to be knocked to kingdom come. No. I don’t like it a bit—in the open that is. Under cover, though it’s even a Kafir hut, I don’t mind.”“You wouldn’t like to be seated on the ‘aerial throne’ then, eh?” laughed Elvesdon.“No, indeed. Look. There’s a fine shooting star.”A streak like a falling rocket, and the phenomenon disappeared. Elvesdon gratefully admitted to himself that this homeward ride through the soft dews of falling night was wholly delightful. Yes, but—would it have been equally so were he alone, or with any other companion at his side—his host for instance; who had lingered behind to light a pipe, and had not taken the trouble to catch them up again? He was constrained to own to himself that it would not. This girl was of a type wholly outside his experience, so natural, so absolutely unconventional. Her ways and ideas struck him somehow as peculiar to herself—and then her appearance—as striking as it was uncommon. He had not begun to fall in love with her, but could not ignore the possibility that he might, and in that case Heaven help him, for he felt pretty sure he would meet with no reciprocity.Meanwhile, there was nothing to be gained by discounting potentialities, wherefore he laid himself out to make the most of the present time, and succeeded admirably well. If his host was rather abstracted and silent throughout the evening, Edala more than made up for it. She chatted away on every subject under the sun; and played and sang—both well—so that by the time he went to bed Elvesdon had come to the conclusion that he had never enjoyed himself so much—or got through such a jolly day in his life.

“You’re going to do nothing of the kind, father,” said Edala, taking up the challenge. “I’m not going to have my aerial throne blown to blazes at all. Why it’s a curiosity—one of the sights. I bring everybody up here to see it.”

“And to sit on it?” rejoined Elvesdon, mischievously.

“Only that no one ever has, except you. Tell me. What did it feel like, for the first time?”

Her straight, clear glance was full upon his face. He was thinking that ‘the first time’ felt uncommonly like being the last. But he answered:

“Well, I don’t know. It was a queer experience—for the first time. To be absolutely candid I won’t pretend that I completely enjoyed it.”

“I know you didn’t. I could see that your hand on the bough was not quite steady. That makes it all the more a big thing to have done.”

“What did you yourself feel like the first time, Miss Thornhill, and—what on earth put the idea into your head?”

“I felt just as I do now, how glorious it was being suspended in mid-air,”—the listener felt creepy in the calves of the legs, as the words brought back his own feelings. “What put it into my head? I was up here one day with another girl and it occurred to me it would be good fun to go and sit there, overhanging space. She didn’t believe I meant it, but I just climbed out on to the tree and sat there. She nearly fainted.”

“Well, nerve isn’t a monopoly of our sex. Look at the wonderful things women do—diving from a ghastly height into a narrow tank—or looping the loop on a bicycle, and so on. By George! it’s enough to make your hair stand on end to watch them.”

“We’ve missed the sunset,” cried Edala. “Never mind. You can see plenty of sunsets, but you can’t sit on my aerial throne every day. Why, where’s father?” looking around. “Oh, there; over by that flat rock.”

Thornhill had strolled away while the two were talking and was standing, shading a match to light his pipe, when—

“Inkose!”

He started slightly. The mountain top was flat and he had seen no one on it but themselves. The salute, however, had proceeded from a tall native, who had risen from behind the flat boulder before mentioned.

This man now advanced, and in the limp of his gait, the other recognised him as the Zulu. Then—Heavens and earth! He had wondered where he had seen him before. Now he knew.

But it was ghastly. No, the thing could not be. It was only a striking likeness. Moonlight is untrustworthy—and now, this light up here in the afterglow of the sunset was dusking. The Zulu stood—contemplating him with a faint, ironical grin.

“There are ‘mouths’ on this mountain top,” he began, “waiting to swallow up men—and women,” he added, with a glance at Edala who together with her companion had now come up. “Whau! it is easy to fall into such. There are those that only half swallow, and return their prey, such as that,”—pointing with his knobstick to the mouth of a crevice a few yards on the other side of the boulder. “Yet it may be that the prey though it returns to life does not do so unbitten. There are other ‘mouths’ who do not return their prey at all, and if it is sought for it is too late, for it is already dead.”

To two of the listeners this bit of dark talking was intelligible because they were familiar with the tricks and turns of the Zulu language. The speaker merely meant to convey that some of the crevices were more dangerous than others. But to the third there was nothing ‘dark’ about it. And then, either from the fact—which no one but herself would have noticed—that her father’s voice had lost some of its imperturbability, or by some mysterious conjunction of weird telepathy—Edala began to think there must be some deeper, darker meaning underlying the words. All sorts of ghastly conjectures shot through her mind, but all vague, shadowy, nebulous. Through them she heard the voice of Elvesdon questioning the stranger.

“Who are you?”

“Manamandhla, son of Gwegula.”

“Of the Zulu?”

“Yeh-bo ’Nkose.”

“And your chief—who is he?”

“The Government.”

“But your own chief?”

“The King.”

“Which king?” said Elvesdon, becoming ‘short.’

“Au! are there then two kings? I had not heard that.”

This answer given so quietly and innocently would have caused the other two to smile, only they were in no smiling mood.

“But who is your chief in Zululand, your Zulu chief?” went on Elvesdon, growing impatient. But the deprecatory smile on the other’s face was beautiful to behold. He replied.

“NowNkose, I would ask—Are there any chiefs in Zululand other than the Government? Not to-day—Government is our chief.”

“Not Mehlo-ka-zulu?”

“He is my relative.”

Elvesdon burst out laughing.

“Confound the fellow, he reminds one of the Irish witness in ‘Handy Andy’,” he said. Then to the Zulu: “Where is your kraal?”

“La-pa. Over there.” And the speaker pointed with his stick in a direction which conveyed the idea that he resided anywhere between the further side of the valley and the North Pole.

Elvesdon did not press the point, knowing perfectly well that he could find out all he wanted from other sources. Then, too, the deft way in which the Zulu fenced all his questions appealed strongly to his sense of the ridiculous. There was, moreover, nothing to be gained in particular by continuing his catechism; and One of the secrets of his success in the handling of natives was that he knew when to humour them and when to draw a tight rein.

“Do you know who I am?” he said.

“Inkoseis the magistrate—the new magistrate—at Kwabulazi.”

“That is so. But new only as regards Kwabulazi,” returned Elvesdon meaningly. “So knowing who I am it is not surprising if I ask: ‘What has a Zulu from beyond the border to do in Babatyana’s location on this side?’”

“Inkose—I have always heard that under the King’s rule all men are free, whether white or black, as long as they do no harm. And I am doing no harm.”

“As long as they do no harm,” repeated Elvesdon, with a touch of significance. “That is well, Manamandhla—that is well.” And he turned away.

“Where are these crevices, Miss Thornhill? It’s curious how they occur in some of these mountain ranges. I got into one myself once, but fortunately it wasn’t particularly deep, or I should be there still.”

“Where was that?”

“In the Cape Colony. I was there on leave, and put in a time with an old official pal of mine. We went reebok-shooting in the mountains, and I got into such a hole as one of these, stepped backwards into it. Fortunately my pal was near enough to hear me sing out, or I might not have been able to pull myself up.”

“This is a deep one,” said Edala. “Come and look. If you drop a stone over, you hear it clanging against the sides ever so far down. Listen, now.”

She dropped a stone over, and both stood listening.

“By Jove, but it is deep,” said Elvesdon. “And beastly dangerous too, almost hidden in the grass.”

Thornhill had not joined them. He was seated on the flat rock, puffing away at his pipe. The ghastliness of the situation was known to him and to one other there present—and here was this unthinking girl dropping stones into this particular cleft, of all others on that mountain top—of all others in the world.

“That is one of the ‘mouths’ that gives not back its prey,” said the deep voice of Manamandhla. “Whau! It retains that which it swallows.” Then with a word of farewell greeting he withdrew, but in the opposite direction to that by which they had ascended.

“Hadn’t we better go down?” said Thornhill. “It’ll be dark directly.”

“And it’s shivery now,” said Edala, looking round with a shudder. “Come along.”

By the time they were off the moss-grown natural stairway it was nearly dark. The horses, hitched to a bush by the bridles, shook themselves and whinnied at their approach.

“What would be the effect of your ‘aerial throne’ by starlight, Miss Thornhill?” said Elvesdon, as they passed beneath the mighty cliff, whose loom cut straight and black against the myriad stars which came gushing out into the velvety vault.

“I’ve never tried it. I believe I’d be afraid. You know—the Kafirs say the Sipazi mountain is haunted, that all sorts oftagatisounds float off from the top of it at night.”

“You afraid? Why I don’t believe there’s anything in the world that could scareyou, after what I’ve seen.”

“Oh isn’t there? I’m rather afraid of lightning, for one thing.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. You see, it’s a thing that no precaution on earth will guard you against. You can stick up conductors on a house, or any sort of building, but you can’t stick one on your hat, when you’re out in the open. I always feel so utterly helpless.”

“Well, of course it’s risky. But you must remember the very small proportion of people who get hit compared with the numbers who spend a large slice of their lives exposed to it.”

“So I do, but somehow it seems poor consolation when everything is fizzing and banging all round you and you expect every second to be knocked to kingdom come. No. I don’t like it a bit—in the open that is. Under cover, though it’s even a Kafir hut, I don’t mind.”

“You wouldn’t like to be seated on the ‘aerial throne’ then, eh?” laughed Elvesdon.

“No, indeed. Look. There’s a fine shooting star.”

A streak like a falling rocket, and the phenomenon disappeared. Elvesdon gratefully admitted to himself that this homeward ride through the soft dews of falling night was wholly delightful. Yes, but—would it have been equally so were he alone, or with any other companion at his side—his host for instance; who had lingered behind to light a pipe, and had not taken the trouble to catch them up again? He was constrained to own to himself that it would not. This girl was of a type wholly outside his experience, so natural, so absolutely unconventional. Her ways and ideas struck him somehow as peculiar to herself—and then her appearance—as striking as it was uncommon. He had not begun to fall in love with her, but could not ignore the possibility that he might, and in that case Heaven help him, for he felt pretty sure he would meet with no reciprocity.

Meanwhile, there was nothing to be gained by discounting potentialities, wherefore he laid himself out to make the most of the present time, and succeeded admirably well. If his host was rather abstracted and silent throughout the evening, Edala more than made up for it. She chatted away on every subject under the sun; and played and sang—both well—so that by the time he went to bed Elvesdon had come to the conclusion that he had never enjoyed himself so much—or got through such a jolly day in his life.

Chapter Ten.A Chief—out of Date.Zavula sat in his hut smoking, and—blinking.Zavula was an old man. There were wisps of white beneath and above the dull, uncared for head-ring, for being a Natal native he did not keep his head scrupulously shaved, as the way of the ringed Zulu is. But his eyesight was very weak, wherefore he sat—and blinked. And he was alone.A small fire burned in the bowl-like hollow in the centre of the hut. Into this Zavula was gazing. Perhaps he was dreaming dreams of the past—when he had been somebody, when he was looked up to and respected by thousands of tribesmen; when, too, he had gallantly led in person these same tribesmen, at the call of the white man’s Government, against the hosts of Cetywayo the Great King, on the red plain of Isandhlwana—only to retire, in helter-skelter rout, together with such of the whites who had it in their power to do likewise, before the on-sweeping wave of the might of Zulu. Then, in those days, his word was law. He had been called upon to assist the Government, and he and his fighting men had done so loyally. It was not their fault if the white leader had been out-generalled by Tyingwayo, who had learned the art of war under Tshaka the Terrible. They had done their best, and had been thanked for it and remembered, when Cetywayo’s power had melted into air, and the horns of that Bull, which had gored where they would, had been blunted and rendered harmless for ever.And now here were his people engaged in running their heads against a rock.Whau! was ever such foolishness known? His people! He had no sons living. The two he had—both were slain in the waters of Umzinyati while striving to escape from the pursuing spears of the Great King—after Isandhlwana. His people, to whom his word had been law, had now turned to Babatyana. He himself was a chief no more.Babatyana was his brother’s son, and Babatyana was not old. Since the teaching of the white people had found footing in the land, and, worse still, since the teaching of certain black people from a far off country beyond the salt water, had come among them the old were no longer respected, no longer listened to. He, Zavula, was old, but Babatyana was not; wherefore the people turned to listen to the words of Babatyana. And Babatyana was plotting against the whites—against the Government.Whau! was ever such foolishness known?What did Babatyana, and the fools who were listening to him, think they would gain—think they would do? The whites, who overthrew for ever the House of Senzangakona and the might of Zulu at the very zenith of its power and glory—were they to be overthrown in their turn by a few unorganised tribes all unskilled and unpractised in the art of war? The whites, who could bring guns to bear, each of which could fire a hundred bullets in every direction while a man could count scarce half that number—why Baba-tyana and his fools might as well run their heads hard against the nearest cliff and strive to beat that down as attempt such a thing as this.Whau! was ever such foolishness known?They reckoned on help from the Amazulu? Well, what then? Even if they got it, where were the Amazulu now? They were no longer a nation. The power of the House of Senzangakona was gone for ever; and even if the splendid army of the last of those Elephants were here to fight on their side—what then? Even more now—ten times more—were the whites able to disperse such, like smoke; for their weapons were ten times better than any they had possessed at the time of the breaking up of the great House.Whau! was ever such foolishness known!And for what were the people plotting, these fools? Because they had to pay a little more in taxes than formerly, to pay for their own protection? Their own protection, for how would it have been with them had the Amabuna (Boer) come out best in the late struggle? The rule of the Amangisi (English), when the very worst had been said against it, was mild and merciful compared with what that of the Amabuna would be, were these masters of the land. Under this every man could enjoy his own and be free. And he was free, no man freer. But—under that? Again. Even if these strange preachers who had come among them with this poison under their tongues spoke truly; that the tribes were to combine and drive out the white man—whether Amabuna or Amangisi—what then? Somebody must be chief. There was no such thing as all men, all tribes and nations, being equal. The very idea was foolishness. Who then would be chief. Who then would be king? There was still a son of the House of Senzangakona alive. And the thinker, for his part, preferred the rule of the white man to that of the House of Senzangakona.All of the above he had put before his people, and that not once only. But they had turned a deaf ear, or had listened but coldly. The spirit of unrest coursed high through their blood. The strange preachers were promising them a great and glorious future—and Babatyana had turned towards them a favourable ear. Zavula was old, they said among themselves; Babatyana was in his prime. He knew. He could walk with the times. The time had come for Zavula to go to sleep. Which sense may have accounted for the fact that Zavula now sat in his hut alone.So the old chief sat there, gazing blinkingly into his dying fire, wondering why he should not be allowed to lay down his old bones in peace, instead of being hustled by a great crowd of idiots bent on seeking their own death. Had either or both of his two sons been alive how different things would have turned. He had taught them sound commonsense, at any rate, and would have been willing that the leadership of the tribe should devolve upon them. But Babatyana?Whau, Babatyana!Now he was roused from his musings by a sound outside. It was the voice of someone singing—calling to him the tribalsibongo, or praise. The door of the hut was pushed open and a youth crept in, saying that a stranger craved leave to speak with the chief.Zavula, though old, and shorn of much of his tribal dignity, had plenty of the latter left—of a personal character. He did not hurry, and after a space of full five minutes he intimated that the stranger might come in.A man crept in through the low doorway, and raising his right hand gave the chiefsibongo. The latter acknowledged it with a murmur, then for a moment there was silence. The new arrival was a middle-aged ringed man, and though he had described himself as a stranger this was only as a term of humility. As a matter of fact he was one of Zavula’s most influential headmen.“I see you, Nxala,” said the chief. “And now? What is the news?”There was ever so faint a twinkle in the speaker’s eyes as he asked the question, ever so ironical asoupçonin his tone.“My father, things are moving. The news is great, but not to be cried aloud. The people are nearly ready.”“M-m! Nearly ready? Ready—for what?”“The people are crying aloud for their father, the Chief of the Amahluzi, but he takes no part in their councils. His voice is not heard.”“The Chief of the Amahluzi takes no part in the councils of fools,” returned the old man in tones of cold irony, looking through the other.“Of fools?”“Of fools—and worse. When children listen no more to the counsel of their fathers then are those children undone.”Again there was silence. Then Zavula raised his voice in a hail. In response two women appeared, and having received an order, returned in a minute or two bearing a large bowl oftywalaand two smaller drinking vessels. Into these they poured some of the liquor, which creamed up with a pleasant frothing sound. Then, each having taken the preliminary sip, required by native etiquette, they withdrew.The headman took a long pull at his beer, and then another. The firelight glowed upon the placid countenance and short white beard of the old chief and upon the shine of the new arrival’s head-ring, and still there was silence. At last the latter spoke.“The people are tired of the white man’s exactions, my father. They have to pay more and more, and they are tired of it. They wish to hear the voice of their chief.”“They have heard that voice already, Nxala—not only once nor only twice. They have heard it as foolish, rebellious children. They will hear it no more. But the time is very near when they will wish, through blood and through tears, that they had listened to it.”An unpleasant look flitted across the crafty face of the headman.“But they murmur, my father,” he said. “They are saying—‘Lo, our father, Zavula, is old, and he is asleep. But Babatyana is not old, and he is awake.’ So say the people.”“Whau, Babatyana!”The infinite contempt in the old man’s tone was quiet and cutting. The evil look deepened in the face of the other. To hide it he took up his drinking vessel again, and drained it. His host at once refilled it from the large bowl, and also his own.“Has the Chief of the Amahluzi no word for Babatyana?” went on Nxala.“Whau, Babatyana!”This time the contempt in the old man’s tone was more cutting than before. The other appreciated it to the full.“And to the people, father? The people, thy children?”“The people? Fools—all fools. But to them I have one word—one last word. Let them come here with the rising of to-morrow’s sun and hear it. Fools—because only a fool wants the same word uttered into his ear again and again.”If it be wondered that during this talk nothing definite was said—no plan propounded—it must be remembered that the colloquial process known as coming straight to the point is an attribute vested in the civilised man. To the savage it is utterly foreign, even abhorrent. These two knew perfectly well what was in each other’s mind. There was no occasion to formulate anything. In matters of moment safety lay that way, a tradition fostered through countless generations. Now Babatyana’s emissary knew that his mission had failed. Babatyana’s chief—the chief of the Amahluzi tribe—was as firm as a rock. Suddenly Nxala’s countenance lit up.“Whau! The spear! The great spear!” he exclaimed. “That is the spear with which my father met the might of Cetywayo, and slew two warriors. I would fain gaze upon that spear once more.”Zavula turned his head, following the speaker’s glance. Behind him hung a fine assegai, of the broad-bladed, short-handled Zulu type, which he had wielded with effect at Isandhlwana as leader of the Native Contingent, before he was forced to fly before the weight of numbers. But as he turned his head the hand of Nxala shot out by a quick movement; perhaps two inches, and no more. But Zavula, though old, was not the fool that the other—and, incidentally, the bulk of his people—chose to take him for.“Ha! The spear?” he answered, in the genial, pleased tones of a veteran invited to enlarge once more on bygone deeds. “It was great, thisumkonto, was it not? And now it must be kept bright or it will rust; for there is no more use for it.”He rose, and turning his back full upon his guest, stood, deliberately taking down the weapon from where it hung behind him. For half a minute he thus stood, gazing lovingly upon it as he held it in his hand. But in a fraction of that half minute the hand of Nxala again shot out till it rested above the chief’s drinking vessel, and as quickly withdrew. The latter sat down again leisurely, the assegai in his hand.“Yes. It is a great spear,” he went on meditatively, but carefully refraining from handing it to the other. “And there is no more use for it. But—we will drink to its memory.”He raised the bowl before him. The other watching him, could hardly suppress the gleam of satisfaction which flitted across his face. But it faded in an instant. The bowl dropped from the chief’s hand on to his knees. The liquor gushed forth on to the floor.“The bowl, my father,” cried Nxala eagerly. “Break it into pieces—in small pieces—for it is badmútito drop it at the moment of drinking.”“It is worsemúti, sometimes, to drink the moment before dropping it,” answered the old man, tranquilly, setting the bowl beside him. “I will have another brought.” And again he raised his voice in a hail. Again the women appeared, and having supplied another bowl, and also a fresh brew oftywala, withdrew.Nxala, watching, could scarcely restrain himself. The first part of his diabolical scheme had miscarried. Was it time for the second act? And there before him sat the old chief, the fine assegai in his hand—yet held in a firm grip, he did not fail to notice—crooning words ofsibongoto it, as he recalled its deeds in past times. Had the scheme succeeded all would have gone so easy. This kraal of Zavula’s was an insignificant cluster of a dozen huts, whither the old chief loved to retire. He was old—what more natural than that he should die in retirement? Yes—it was time for the second act. He would give the signal.“Have you heard, my father; the new song that the people have made?” he said. “The new war-song? Listen. This is how it runs.”But before he had uttered three words of it a trampling of hoofs was heard outside the hut, and a lusty European voice—though speaking faultless Zulu—enquiring which was the hut of the chief. Following on the answer there came through the low door of the hut a man, a white man—and he was known to both as the magistrate’s clerk from Kwabulazi.“Greeting to you, father,” he cried, falling into the native idiom, and shaking Zavula heartily by the hand.“Greeting, my son,” answered the old chief genially. “Sit. Here istywala. Have you ridden far?”“Far? Have I not? And I am come to sleep at your kraal, for Kwabulazi is another stage away, and it is night, and my horse is dead lame.”Nxala, taking in the situation, was beside himself with inward rage, which, in fact, had got nearly to that pitch where the Machiavellian caution of the savage is apt to forget, and lose itself in an outburst of uncontrolled, unthinking blood lust. But he had not overlooked the fact that the new arrival had, slung around him, a remarkably business-like revolver. No, the time was not yet.A dozen armed savages, lying in wait in the dark bush shadows a little way beyond Zavula’s kraal, had sprung up at the first words of the new war-song, which was to be the signal, but subsided again at the sound of the approaching horse-hoofs. Now, after a muttered consultation, they withdrew to a distance to await their leader’s reappearance and instructions. But there was an armed white man, and he an official, sleeping at Zavula’s kraal, which made all the difference.Twice that night the life of the chief of the Amahluzi had hung on a hair. It was saved—for the present.

Zavula sat in his hut smoking, and—blinking.

Zavula was an old man. There were wisps of white beneath and above the dull, uncared for head-ring, for being a Natal native he did not keep his head scrupulously shaved, as the way of the ringed Zulu is. But his eyesight was very weak, wherefore he sat—and blinked. And he was alone.

A small fire burned in the bowl-like hollow in the centre of the hut. Into this Zavula was gazing. Perhaps he was dreaming dreams of the past—when he had been somebody, when he was looked up to and respected by thousands of tribesmen; when, too, he had gallantly led in person these same tribesmen, at the call of the white man’s Government, against the hosts of Cetywayo the Great King, on the red plain of Isandhlwana—only to retire, in helter-skelter rout, together with such of the whites who had it in their power to do likewise, before the on-sweeping wave of the might of Zulu. Then, in those days, his word was law. He had been called upon to assist the Government, and he and his fighting men had done so loyally. It was not their fault if the white leader had been out-generalled by Tyingwayo, who had learned the art of war under Tshaka the Terrible. They had done their best, and had been thanked for it and remembered, when Cetywayo’s power had melted into air, and the horns of that Bull, which had gored where they would, had been blunted and rendered harmless for ever.

And now here were his people engaged in running their heads against a rock.Whau! was ever such foolishness known? His people! He had no sons living. The two he had—both were slain in the waters of Umzinyati while striving to escape from the pursuing spears of the Great King—after Isandhlwana. His people, to whom his word had been law, had now turned to Babatyana. He himself was a chief no more.

Babatyana was his brother’s son, and Babatyana was not old. Since the teaching of the white people had found footing in the land, and, worse still, since the teaching of certain black people from a far off country beyond the salt water, had come among them the old were no longer respected, no longer listened to. He, Zavula, was old, but Babatyana was not; wherefore the people turned to listen to the words of Babatyana. And Babatyana was plotting against the whites—against the Government.Whau! was ever such foolishness known?

What did Babatyana, and the fools who were listening to him, think they would gain—think they would do? The whites, who overthrew for ever the House of Senzangakona and the might of Zulu at the very zenith of its power and glory—were they to be overthrown in their turn by a few unorganised tribes all unskilled and unpractised in the art of war? The whites, who could bring guns to bear, each of which could fire a hundred bullets in every direction while a man could count scarce half that number—why Baba-tyana and his fools might as well run their heads hard against the nearest cliff and strive to beat that down as attempt such a thing as this.Whau! was ever such foolishness known?

They reckoned on help from the Amazulu? Well, what then? Even if they got it, where were the Amazulu now? They were no longer a nation. The power of the House of Senzangakona was gone for ever; and even if the splendid army of the last of those Elephants were here to fight on their side—what then? Even more now—ten times more—were the whites able to disperse such, like smoke; for their weapons were ten times better than any they had possessed at the time of the breaking up of the great House.

Whau! was ever such foolishness known!

And for what were the people plotting, these fools? Because they had to pay a little more in taxes than formerly, to pay for their own protection? Their own protection, for how would it have been with them had the Amabuna (Boer) come out best in the late struggle? The rule of the Amangisi (English), when the very worst had been said against it, was mild and merciful compared with what that of the Amabuna would be, were these masters of the land. Under this every man could enjoy his own and be free. And he was free, no man freer. But—under that? Again. Even if these strange preachers who had come among them with this poison under their tongues spoke truly; that the tribes were to combine and drive out the white man—whether Amabuna or Amangisi—what then? Somebody must be chief. There was no such thing as all men, all tribes and nations, being equal. The very idea was foolishness. Who then would be chief. Who then would be king? There was still a son of the House of Senzangakona alive. And the thinker, for his part, preferred the rule of the white man to that of the House of Senzangakona.

All of the above he had put before his people, and that not once only. But they had turned a deaf ear, or had listened but coldly. The spirit of unrest coursed high through their blood. The strange preachers were promising them a great and glorious future—and Babatyana had turned towards them a favourable ear. Zavula was old, they said among themselves; Babatyana was in his prime. He knew. He could walk with the times. The time had come for Zavula to go to sleep. Which sense may have accounted for the fact that Zavula now sat in his hut alone.

So the old chief sat there, gazing blinkingly into his dying fire, wondering why he should not be allowed to lay down his old bones in peace, instead of being hustled by a great crowd of idiots bent on seeking their own death. Had either or both of his two sons been alive how different things would have turned. He had taught them sound commonsense, at any rate, and would have been willing that the leadership of the tribe should devolve upon them. But Babatyana?Whau, Babatyana!

Now he was roused from his musings by a sound outside. It was the voice of someone singing—calling to him the tribalsibongo, or praise. The door of the hut was pushed open and a youth crept in, saying that a stranger craved leave to speak with the chief.

Zavula, though old, and shorn of much of his tribal dignity, had plenty of the latter left—of a personal character. He did not hurry, and after a space of full five minutes he intimated that the stranger might come in.

A man crept in through the low doorway, and raising his right hand gave the chiefsibongo. The latter acknowledged it with a murmur, then for a moment there was silence. The new arrival was a middle-aged ringed man, and though he had described himself as a stranger this was only as a term of humility. As a matter of fact he was one of Zavula’s most influential headmen.

“I see you, Nxala,” said the chief. “And now? What is the news?”

There was ever so faint a twinkle in the speaker’s eyes as he asked the question, ever so ironical asoupçonin his tone.

“My father, things are moving. The news is great, but not to be cried aloud. The people are nearly ready.”

“M-m! Nearly ready? Ready—for what?”

“The people are crying aloud for their father, the Chief of the Amahluzi, but he takes no part in their councils. His voice is not heard.”

“The Chief of the Amahluzi takes no part in the councils of fools,” returned the old man in tones of cold irony, looking through the other.

“Of fools?”

“Of fools—and worse. When children listen no more to the counsel of their fathers then are those children undone.”

Again there was silence. Then Zavula raised his voice in a hail. In response two women appeared, and having received an order, returned in a minute or two bearing a large bowl oftywalaand two smaller drinking vessels. Into these they poured some of the liquor, which creamed up with a pleasant frothing sound. Then, each having taken the preliminary sip, required by native etiquette, they withdrew.

The headman took a long pull at his beer, and then another. The firelight glowed upon the placid countenance and short white beard of the old chief and upon the shine of the new arrival’s head-ring, and still there was silence. At last the latter spoke.

“The people are tired of the white man’s exactions, my father. They have to pay more and more, and they are tired of it. They wish to hear the voice of their chief.”

“They have heard that voice already, Nxala—not only once nor only twice. They have heard it as foolish, rebellious children. They will hear it no more. But the time is very near when they will wish, through blood and through tears, that they had listened to it.”

An unpleasant look flitted across the crafty face of the headman.

“But they murmur, my father,” he said. “They are saying—‘Lo, our father, Zavula, is old, and he is asleep. But Babatyana is not old, and he is awake.’ So say the people.”

“Whau, Babatyana!”

The infinite contempt in the old man’s tone was quiet and cutting. The evil look deepened in the face of the other. To hide it he took up his drinking vessel again, and drained it. His host at once refilled it from the large bowl, and also his own.

“Has the Chief of the Amahluzi no word for Babatyana?” went on Nxala.

“Whau, Babatyana!”

This time the contempt in the old man’s tone was more cutting than before. The other appreciated it to the full.

“And to the people, father? The people, thy children?”

“The people? Fools—all fools. But to them I have one word—one last word. Let them come here with the rising of to-morrow’s sun and hear it. Fools—because only a fool wants the same word uttered into his ear again and again.”

If it be wondered that during this talk nothing definite was said—no plan propounded—it must be remembered that the colloquial process known as coming straight to the point is an attribute vested in the civilised man. To the savage it is utterly foreign, even abhorrent. These two knew perfectly well what was in each other’s mind. There was no occasion to formulate anything. In matters of moment safety lay that way, a tradition fostered through countless generations. Now Babatyana’s emissary knew that his mission had failed. Babatyana’s chief—the chief of the Amahluzi tribe—was as firm as a rock. Suddenly Nxala’s countenance lit up.

“Whau! The spear! The great spear!” he exclaimed. “That is the spear with which my father met the might of Cetywayo, and slew two warriors. I would fain gaze upon that spear once more.”

Zavula turned his head, following the speaker’s glance. Behind him hung a fine assegai, of the broad-bladed, short-handled Zulu type, which he had wielded with effect at Isandhlwana as leader of the Native Contingent, before he was forced to fly before the weight of numbers. But as he turned his head the hand of Nxala shot out by a quick movement; perhaps two inches, and no more. But Zavula, though old, was not the fool that the other—and, incidentally, the bulk of his people—chose to take him for.

“Ha! The spear?” he answered, in the genial, pleased tones of a veteran invited to enlarge once more on bygone deeds. “It was great, thisumkonto, was it not? And now it must be kept bright or it will rust; for there is no more use for it.”

He rose, and turning his back full upon his guest, stood, deliberately taking down the weapon from where it hung behind him. For half a minute he thus stood, gazing lovingly upon it as he held it in his hand. But in a fraction of that half minute the hand of Nxala again shot out till it rested above the chief’s drinking vessel, and as quickly withdrew. The latter sat down again leisurely, the assegai in his hand.

“Yes. It is a great spear,” he went on meditatively, but carefully refraining from handing it to the other. “And there is no more use for it. But—we will drink to its memory.”

He raised the bowl before him. The other watching him, could hardly suppress the gleam of satisfaction which flitted across his face. But it faded in an instant. The bowl dropped from the chief’s hand on to his knees. The liquor gushed forth on to the floor.

“The bowl, my father,” cried Nxala eagerly. “Break it into pieces—in small pieces—for it is badmútito drop it at the moment of drinking.”

“It is worsemúti, sometimes, to drink the moment before dropping it,” answered the old man, tranquilly, setting the bowl beside him. “I will have another brought.” And again he raised his voice in a hail. Again the women appeared, and having supplied another bowl, and also a fresh brew oftywala, withdrew.

Nxala, watching, could scarcely restrain himself. The first part of his diabolical scheme had miscarried. Was it time for the second act? And there before him sat the old chief, the fine assegai in his hand—yet held in a firm grip, he did not fail to notice—crooning words ofsibongoto it, as he recalled its deeds in past times. Had the scheme succeeded all would have gone so easy. This kraal of Zavula’s was an insignificant cluster of a dozen huts, whither the old chief loved to retire. He was old—what more natural than that he should die in retirement? Yes—it was time for the second act. He would give the signal.

“Have you heard, my father; the new song that the people have made?” he said. “The new war-song? Listen. This is how it runs.”

But before he had uttered three words of it a trampling of hoofs was heard outside the hut, and a lusty European voice—though speaking faultless Zulu—enquiring which was the hut of the chief. Following on the answer there came through the low door of the hut a man, a white man—and he was known to both as the magistrate’s clerk from Kwabulazi.

“Greeting to you, father,” he cried, falling into the native idiom, and shaking Zavula heartily by the hand.

“Greeting, my son,” answered the old chief genially. “Sit. Here istywala. Have you ridden far?”

“Far? Have I not? And I am come to sleep at your kraal, for Kwabulazi is another stage away, and it is night, and my horse is dead lame.”

Nxala, taking in the situation, was beside himself with inward rage, which, in fact, had got nearly to that pitch where the Machiavellian caution of the savage is apt to forget, and lose itself in an outburst of uncontrolled, unthinking blood lust. But he had not overlooked the fact that the new arrival had, slung around him, a remarkably business-like revolver. No, the time was not yet.

A dozen armed savages, lying in wait in the dark bush shadows a little way beyond Zavula’s kraal, had sprung up at the first words of the new war-song, which was to be the signal, but subsided again at the sound of the approaching horse-hoofs. Now, after a muttered consultation, they withdrew to a distance to await their leader’s reappearance and instructions. But there was an armed white man, and he an official, sleeping at Zavula’s kraal, which made all the difference.

Twice that night the life of the chief of the Amahluzi had hung on a hair. It was saved—for the present.

Chapter Eleven.“Good Night, Zavula!”Elvesdon was seated in his inner office, busied with his ordinary routine work. It was afternoon and hot, and he had thrown off his coat and waistcoat, and sat in his shirt and light duck trousers smoking a pipe of excellent Magaliesberg. Court was over, he had disposed of the few cases, mostly of a trumpery nature, before lunch, and now the office work was not of a particularly engrossing character; wherefore perhaps it was not strange that his thoughts should go back to his Sunday visit, which, of course, spelt Edala Thornhill.The worst of it was she had been occupying his thoughts of late, and that even when he had seen her but once. Now he had seen her twice—had spent a whole day in her society. And she was occupying his thoughts more than ever. Yet—why?He was not in his first youth, nor was she the first of the other sex he had been interested in. He had had experiences, as a fine, well-looking, well set up man of his stamp was bound to have had. Yet the image of this girl had stamped itself upon his mind in a way that the image of no one else had ever been able to do for years; since what he pleasantly liked to term to himself—his salad days. And he did not know what to make of this interest. It was not even budding love—he told himself—only a strong interest in what seemed an interesting character. Yet behind it was an unmistakable longing to see more of her. The feeling rendered him vaguely uncomfortable.He relit his pipe, and sat back to think. There came a tap at the door and his clerk entered, bringing some official letters to be signed.“Anything new. Prior?” he asked carelessly, when this process had been accomplished.“There is, sir. Teliso has come back, and there’s been an infernal rascally Ethiopian preacher stirring up Babatyana’s location. He’s gone on to Nteseni’s.”“I know. I captured that information from two fellows I was talking with this morning. I’ll see Teliso directly. But what can you do—at this stage of affairs? I’m keeping my eyes open, but you mustn’t be too zealous in our Service, Prior, or you’re bound to come out bottom dog. The chap I want particularly looked after is this Manamandhla. He’s a crafty swine and not over here for any good. I had a talk with him the other day and he’s as slippery as the proverbial eel.”“Did you, sir? Well, I can tell you something about him. He’s gone to squat on old Thornhill’s farm.”“To squat?”“Yes, so they say. It seems fishy, to say the least of it.”“How so?”“Why he’s a biggish man over on the other side. What should he want to come and squat here for?”“What do you mean by ‘squatting,’ Prior? I should say Thornhill was not the sort of man to allow squatters on his place.”“Well, sir, that’s what I’ve got at through the people. Anyway it simplifies the watching part of the business, for we’ve got Manamandhla bang under our noses.”Elvesdon sat meditatively, burning his middle finger into the bowl of his lighted pipe. More and more was it brought home to him how anything concerning the house of Thornhill spelt interest to him, even vivid interest, he could not but own to himself. And Thornhill was rather a mysterious personality, and his daughter even more out of the commonplace. What did it all mean—what the very deuce did it all mean? Then he said:“I don’t quite know what to make of it just now, Prior. Things are shaping out. But you keep your ears open. You were born and bred on this frontier, and you know these chaps and their ways a good deal better than I do. You can grip things that I should probably miss entirely. So don’t let anything pass.”It was just by such frank and hearty appreciation of their capabilities that Elvesdon endeared himself to his subordinates, hence this one’s dictum upon him to Thornhill on a former occasion.“You may rely upon me, sir,” answered Prior, intensely gratified. “I’ll do my very best—all along the line.”“And that will be a very good kind of best, Prior, judging from my short experience of you. Hullo! Come in.”This in response to another knock at the door. It was opened and there entered a native constable.“Nkose! The chief has arrived. The chief, Zavula. He would have a word withNkose.”“Admit him,” said Elvesdon, cramming a fresh fill into his pipe.There was a sound of light footsteps, made by bare feet, outside, and old Zavula appeared in the doorway. His right hand was uplifted, and he poured forth words ofsibongoin the liquid Zulu. Elvesdon arose and shook the old man by the hand. He was always especially courteous to men of rank among the natives—a fact which they fully appreciated.“Greeting, my father. I am glad to see you,” he said. “Sit. Here is snuff. It is a good accompaniment for a talk.”Zavula subsided on to the floor—a native of course would be supremely uncomfortable on a chair. Prior, with ready tact, had withdrawn. There were those who said that Elvesdon was too free and easy with natives, that he allowed them too much equality. Well, he had never found his official dignity suffer by the line he took, but that line he knew where to draw, and occasionally did—with effect. But Zavula was one of Nature’s gentlemen.The old chief, having spent two or three minutes filling up his nostrils with snuff, began—“It is good to seeNkoseagain. I have seen him but once when he first arrived here, and could see that the Government had sent us a man—one who could understand us—and my heart felt good. Now I see him again.”“Those who rule over the people are always welcome, my father,” returned Elvesdon. “What is the news?”“News?Au! I know not, Ntwezi. Is this a time for news? Or a time for quiet? I am old, very old, and my sons are in the land of the Great Unknown. You, who are young, of the age they would be were they still here, to you comes news from all the world.”The old man’s eyes shone with a kindly twinkle. He had used Elvesdon’s native nickname—not in itself an uncomplimentary one—instead of the respectful ‘Nkose’ such as he should have used when addressing his magistrate, yet the latter thoroughly appreciated the difference. There was no fear of the old chief encroaching upon his official dignity by this momentary lapse into speaking of him in the same breath as his dead sons.They talked a little on commonplaces—yet not altogether, for both were fencing up to more serious import. Elvesdon, with his knowledge of native ways, did not hurry his visitor. He knew, instinctively, that the latter had come to see him on some subject of more or less importance: how much so he had yet to learn. He noticed, too, that Zavula had brought in with him a bundle—an ordinary looking bundle of no size, done up in a dingy rag. His quick, deductive instinct had taken this in, where most white men would have overlooked it completely—especially if hide-bound by officialism. A chief of Zavula’s standing did not carry his own loads, however small. Elvesdon’s curiosity was aroused, and grew, with regard to that bundle.It, now, Zavula proceeded to untie. From the wrapper he produced an ordinary drinking bowl of black, porous clay. It was not a clean bowl either for the inside showed thick smears of dried uptywala. This he placed carefully upon the ground before him. Elvesdon watched this development with growing curiosity.“Nkose,” said the old man, looking up. “Where is Udokotela?”This, which was a mere corruption of the English word ‘doctor,’ referred to the District Surgeon.“You will have far to go to find him, Zavula. Are you then sick?”“Whau! My heart is sick, for there are some who think I have lived too long. It may be that they are right. And—they are of my children too.”There was infinite pathos in the tone, as the speaker dropped his glance sorrowfully down to the object before him. Elvesdon’s interest kindled vividly. He began to see through the situation now.“There is death in this,” went on the old chief touching the bowl. “I would like Udokotela to examine it.”“Leave it with me, Zavula, and I will take care that he does. It will be safe here.”He unlocked a cupboard and stowed away the vessel carefully. “Now—who is it that thinks their chief has lived too long, Zavula?”“Au! That will become known. But the time is not yet. What I have shownNkoseis between him and Udokotela.”Elvesdon promised to respect his confidence and the old man got up to leave. Would he not eat and drink? No. The sun would have dropped before he reached his kraal, and he liked not being abroad in the dark hours. Perhaps he was too old, he added with a whimsical smile. Another day, when he should come over to hear the word of Udokotela as to the hiddenmútithen he would have more time.Elvesdon and the clerk stood watching the forms of the old chief and his one scarcely less aged attendant, as they receded up the valley.“That’s a grand old boy, Prior,” said the former. “A dear old boy. If we had a few more of his sort around here we needn’t have bothered ourselves about the lively times that any fool can see are sticking out ahead of us.”The two old men held steadily on their way, walking with an ease and elasticity that many a youth might have envied—over rough ground and smooth—now and again sitting down to take snuff, which is far too serious an operation to be performed during the process of locomotion. As nearly as possible they travelled in a direct line, accomplishing this by taking short cuts through the bush by tracks known to themselves, but to a mounted man quite, impracticable, and so faint that a white man would get hopelessly lost.Following one of these, they were about to come out upon opener ground. The sun had dropped, and in the black gloom of forest trees it would be night in a very few minutes. In front however showed a temporary lightening where the foliage thinned. Overhanging this opener ground was a tumble of rocks and boulders rising to no great height.“I would fain have been earlier, brother,” murmured Zavula. “My eyes are over old to see in the dark, and—”He did not finish his words; instead he dropped to the earth, felled by the murderous blow which had crashed upon his unsuspecting head from behind. His companion sprang aside just in time to dodge a like blow aimed at him, and raising his stick leaped furiously at the foremost assailant, determined that one should die at any rate. It was a futile resistance, for what could an old man with nothing but an ordinary stick do against half a dozen armed miscreants. These sprang at him at once, yet even then so energetic was his defence that they drew back for a moment.“Have done!” growled a voice from behind these. “Make an end. No—no blood,” as one fiend was poising an assegai for a throw. “Make an end, fools, make an end.”“It is Nxala who hounds on these cowardly dogs,” jeered this brave old man, recognising the voice out of the darkness. “Whau! Nxala!”It was his last utterance. A heavy knobstick, hurled with tremendous force, struck him full between the eyes, and he, too, dropped.The murderers were upon him at once, battering his skull to atoms with their knobsticks, in the fury of their savagery forgetting their instigator’s warning as to the shedding of blood.While this was happening old Zavula had half raised himself.“Dog’s son, Nxala,” he exclaimed. “I have found my end. Thine shall be the white man’s rope.”These were his last words. The murderous fiends, springing upon him, completed their atrocious work—this time effectually. A slight quiver, and the old chief’s body lay still and lifeless.The tumble of rocks and stones contained, from the very nature of its formation, several holes and caves, and to these now were the bodies dragged. To fling them in, and cover the apertures with stones, was the work of a very short time.“Hlala-gahle, Zavula! Good night, Zavula!” cried Nxala, raising a hand in mockery. “Rest peacefully.Whau! Our father has left us. We will depart and cry thesibongoto Babatyana the new chief.”“Yeh-bo! Babatyana the new chief.”And the cowardly murderers departed from the scene of their abominable deed, and the darkness of black night fell suddenly upon the graves of these two old men, thus barbarously and treacherously done to death; heathen savages both, but estimable and useful according to their lights. And it might well be that the mocking aspiration of the cowardly instigator of their destruction was from that moment to be fulfilled.

Elvesdon was seated in his inner office, busied with his ordinary routine work. It was afternoon and hot, and he had thrown off his coat and waistcoat, and sat in his shirt and light duck trousers smoking a pipe of excellent Magaliesberg. Court was over, he had disposed of the few cases, mostly of a trumpery nature, before lunch, and now the office work was not of a particularly engrossing character; wherefore perhaps it was not strange that his thoughts should go back to his Sunday visit, which, of course, spelt Edala Thornhill.

The worst of it was she had been occupying his thoughts of late, and that even when he had seen her but once. Now he had seen her twice—had spent a whole day in her society. And she was occupying his thoughts more than ever. Yet—why?

He was not in his first youth, nor was she the first of the other sex he had been interested in. He had had experiences, as a fine, well-looking, well set up man of his stamp was bound to have had. Yet the image of this girl had stamped itself upon his mind in a way that the image of no one else had ever been able to do for years; since what he pleasantly liked to term to himself—his salad days. And he did not know what to make of this interest. It was not even budding love—he told himself—only a strong interest in what seemed an interesting character. Yet behind it was an unmistakable longing to see more of her. The feeling rendered him vaguely uncomfortable.

He relit his pipe, and sat back to think. There came a tap at the door and his clerk entered, bringing some official letters to be signed.

“Anything new. Prior?” he asked carelessly, when this process had been accomplished.

“There is, sir. Teliso has come back, and there’s been an infernal rascally Ethiopian preacher stirring up Babatyana’s location. He’s gone on to Nteseni’s.”

“I know. I captured that information from two fellows I was talking with this morning. I’ll see Teliso directly. But what can you do—at this stage of affairs? I’m keeping my eyes open, but you mustn’t be too zealous in our Service, Prior, or you’re bound to come out bottom dog. The chap I want particularly looked after is this Manamandhla. He’s a crafty swine and not over here for any good. I had a talk with him the other day and he’s as slippery as the proverbial eel.”

“Did you, sir? Well, I can tell you something about him. He’s gone to squat on old Thornhill’s farm.”

“To squat?”

“Yes, so they say. It seems fishy, to say the least of it.”

“How so?”

“Why he’s a biggish man over on the other side. What should he want to come and squat here for?”

“What do you mean by ‘squatting,’ Prior? I should say Thornhill was not the sort of man to allow squatters on his place.”

“Well, sir, that’s what I’ve got at through the people. Anyway it simplifies the watching part of the business, for we’ve got Manamandhla bang under our noses.”

Elvesdon sat meditatively, burning his middle finger into the bowl of his lighted pipe. More and more was it brought home to him how anything concerning the house of Thornhill spelt interest to him, even vivid interest, he could not but own to himself. And Thornhill was rather a mysterious personality, and his daughter even more out of the commonplace. What did it all mean—what the very deuce did it all mean? Then he said:

“I don’t quite know what to make of it just now, Prior. Things are shaping out. But you keep your ears open. You were born and bred on this frontier, and you know these chaps and their ways a good deal better than I do. You can grip things that I should probably miss entirely. So don’t let anything pass.”

It was just by such frank and hearty appreciation of their capabilities that Elvesdon endeared himself to his subordinates, hence this one’s dictum upon him to Thornhill on a former occasion.

“You may rely upon me, sir,” answered Prior, intensely gratified. “I’ll do my very best—all along the line.”

“And that will be a very good kind of best, Prior, judging from my short experience of you. Hullo! Come in.”

This in response to another knock at the door. It was opened and there entered a native constable.

“Nkose! The chief has arrived. The chief, Zavula. He would have a word withNkose.”

“Admit him,” said Elvesdon, cramming a fresh fill into his pipe.

There was a sound of light footsteps, made by bare feet, outside, and old Zavula appeared in the doorway. His right hand was uplifted, and he poured forth words ofsibongoin the liquid Zulu. Elvesdon arose and shook the old man by the hand. He was always especially courteous to men of rank among the natives—a fact which they fully appreciated.

“Greeting, my father. I am glad to see you,” he said. “Sit. Here is snuff. It is a good accompaniment for a talk.”

Zavula subsided on to the floor—a native of course would be supremely uncomfortable on a chair. Prior, with ready tact, had withdrawn. There were those who said that Elvesdon was too free and easy with natives, that he allowed them too much equality. Well, he had never found his official dignity suffer by the line he took, but that line he knew where to draw, and occasionally did—with effect. But Zavula was one of Nature’s gentlemen.

The old chief, having spent two or three minutes filling up his nostrils with snuff, began—

“It is good to seeNkoseagain. I have seen him but once when he first arrived here, and could see that the Government had sent us a man—one who could understand us—and my heart felt good. Now I see him again.”

“Those who rule over the people are always welcome, my father,” returned Elvesdon. “What is the news?”

“News?Au! I know not, Ntwezi. Is this a time for news? Or a time for quiet? I am old, very old, and my sons are in the land of the Great Unknown. You, who are young, of the age they would be were they still here, to you comes news from all the world.”

The old man’s eyes shone with a kindly twinkle. He had used Elvesdon’s native nickname—not in itself an uncomplimentary one—instead of the respectful ‘Nkose’ such as he should have used when addressing his magistrate, yet the latter thoroughly appreciated the difference. There was no fear of the old chief encroaching upon his official dignity by this momentary lapse into speaking of him in the same breath as his dead sons.

They talked a little on commonplaces—yet not altogether, for both were fencing up to more serious import. Elvesdon, with his knowledge of native ways, did not hurry his visitor. He knew, instinctively, that the latter had come to see him on some subject of more or less importance: how much so he had yet to learn. He noticed, too, that Zavula had brought in with him a bundle—an ordinary looking bundle of no size, done up in a dingy rag. His quick, deductive instinct had taken this in, where most white men would have overlooked it completely—especially if hide-bound by officialism. A chief of Zavula’s standing did not carry his own loads, however small. Elvesdon’s curiosity was aroused, and grew, with regard to that bundle.

It, now, Zavula proceeded to untie. From the wrapper he produced an ordinary drinking bowl of black, porous clay. It was not a clean bowl either for the inside showed thick smears of dried uptywala. This he placed carefully upon the ground before him. Elvesdon watched this development with growing curiosity.

“Nkose,” said the old man, looking up. “Where is Udokotela?”

This, which was a mere corruption of the English word ‘doctor,’ referred to the District Surgeon.

“You will have far to go to find him, Zavula. Are you then sick?”

“Whau! My heart is sick, for there are some who think I have lived too long. It may be that they are right. And—they are of my children too.”

There was infinite pathos in the tone, as the speaker dropped his glance sorrowfully down to the object before him. Elvesdon’s interest kindled vividly. He began to see through the situation now.

“There is death in this,” went on the old chief touching the bowl. “I would like Udokotela to examine it.”

“Leave it with me, Zavula, and I will take care that he does. It will be safe here.”

He unlocked a cupboard and stowed away the vessel carefully. “Now—who is it that thinks their chief has lived too long, Zavula?”

“Au! That will become known. But the time is not yet. What I have shownNkoseis between him and Udokotela.”

Elvesdon promised to respect his confidence and the old man got up to leave. Would he not eat and drink? No. The sun would have dropped before he reached his kraal, and he liked not being abroad in the dark hours. Perhaps he was too old, he added with a whimsical smile. Another day, when he should come over to hear the word of Udokotela as to the hiddenmútithen he would have more time.

Elvesdon and the clerk stood watching the forms of the old chief and his one scarcely less aged attendant, as they receded up the valley.

“That’s a grand old boy, Prior,” said the former. “A dear old boy. If we had a few more of his sort around here we needn’t have bothered ourselves about the lively times that any fool can see are sticking out ahead of us.”

The two old men held steadily on their way, walking with an ease and elasticity that many a youth might have envied—over rough ground and smooth—now and again sitting down to take snuff, which is far too serious an operation to be performed during the process of locomotion. As nearly as possible they travelled in a direct line, accomplishing this by taking short cuts through the bush by tracks known to themselves, but to a mounted man quite, impracticable, and so faint that a white man would get hopelessly lost.

Following one of these, they were about to come out upon opener ground. The sun had dropped, and in the black gloom of forest trees it would be night in a very few minutes. In front however showed a temporary lightening where the foliage thinned. Overhanging this opener ground was a tumble of rocks and boulders rising to no great height.

“I would fain have been earlier, brother,” murmured Zavula. “My eyes are over old to see in the dark, and—”

He did not finish his words; instead he dropped to the earth, felled by the murderous blow which had crashed upon his unsuspecting head from behind. His companion sprang aside just in time to dodge a like blow aimed at him, and raising his stick leaped furiously at the foremost assailant, determined that one should die at any rate. It was a futile resistance, for what could an old man with nothing but an ordinary stick do against half a dozen armed miscreants. These sprang at him at once, yet even then so energetic was his defence that they drew back for a moment.

“Have done!” growled a voice from behind these. “Make an end. No—no blood,” as one fiend was poising an assegai for a throw. “Make an end, fools, make an end.”

“It is Nxala who hounds on these cowardly dogs,” jeered this brave old man, recognising the voice out of the darkness. “Whau! Nxala!”

It was his last utterance. A heavy knobstick, hurled with tremendous force, struck him full between the eyes, and he, too, dropped.

The murderers were upon him at once, battering his skull to atoms with their knobsticks, in the fury of their savagery forgetting their instigator’s warning as to the shedding of blood.

While this was happening old Zavula had half raised himself.

“Dog’s son, Nxala,” he exclaimed. “I have found my end. Thine shall be the white man’s rope.”

These were his last words. The murderous fiends, springing upon him, completed their atrocious work—this time effectually. A slight quiver, and the old chief’s body lay still and lifeless.

The tumble of rocks and stones contained, from the very nature of its formation, several holes and caves, and to these now were the bodies dragged. To fling them in, and cover the apertures with stones, was the work of a very short time.

“Hlala-gahle, Zavula! Good night, Zavula!” cried Nxala, raising a hand in mockery. “Rest peacefully.Whau! Our father has left us. We will depart and cry thesibongoto Babatyana the new chief.”

“Yeh-bo! Babatyana the new chief.”

And the cowardly murderers departed from the scene of their abominable deed, and the darkness of black night fell suddenly upon the graves of these two old men, thus barbarously and treacherously done to death; heathen savages both, but estimable and useful according to their lights. And it might well be that the mocking aspiration of the cowardly instigator of their destruction was from that moment to be fulfilled.

Chapter Twelve.Two Letters.“How much longer is that man going to hang about here?” said Edala, gazing, somewhat frowningly, from the window of her father’s book room, which looked out upon the cattle-kraals and the group of huts, occupied by the native servants, which stood adjacent thereto.“Who? Oh, Manamandhla! Not for long, I should think. Do you know, child, he’s rather an interesting chap to talk to and has become quite civil. He asked me to let him stop on here a bit, and he’d help with the cattle now we’re short-handed.”“Well, we shall be more so soon, for old Patolo can’t stand him. He’ll be clearing next, you’ll see.”“Not he. They’ll strike it off all right. Patolo has been cattle-herd-in-chief to me nearly all your life, and knows where he’s well off. And Manamandhla may prove useful in other ways.”The object of their talk, and the girl’s animadversion, had just emerged from one of the huts. For a moment he stood gazing at the weather, then drawing his ample green blanket close around his tall form, he strode away over the veldt.“Why have you got such a down on him, child? He’s respectful and civil enough to you, isn’t he?”“Oh yes—at least for the present.”“Why should he not continue to be?” went on her father.“I don’t know. No, I don’t. I suppose it’s—instinct.”She still stood gazing out of the window, and her face was troubled, even resentful. She could not forget the expression that had come upon her father’s face, fleeting as it had been, when they had first met this man yonder on the summit of Sipazi mountain. It was not his first meeting either, for he had brought home the story of the Zulu’s insolence on that other occasion. She felt puzzled—even suspicious, and therefore resentful.It was a grey, drizzling afternoon, and the splendour of forest and mountain, lovely in the sparkle of blue sky and dazzling sun, was blotted out by rain and mist, with dreary and depressing effect. Low clouds swept along the base of the heights, whirling back now and then to display some great krantz such as the face of Sipazi, its altitude, multiplied by the dimness, looming up in awful grandeur, to fade again into the murk.Instinct! Thornhill did not like that word, and it was no mere flash in the pan either. The child was so confoundedly sharp at leaping to conclusions; generally accurate ones too, and that with nothing to go upon. He had tried to assume his normal unconcern of speech and manner, in talking on this subject—for this was not the first time it had been brought up—and could only wonder if he had succeeded.“Are you afraid of him, then?” he said at last.“Afraid? No. But I don’t like him, and I wish he’d clear. I don’t believe he’s up to any good at all here.”“Now, dear, aren’t you just a trifle unreasonable as to this particular ‘bee’ of yours?” said her father, somewhat annoyed. “You say you’re not afraid of him, and I’ve told you the man is useful to me in ways. Now am I to run this farm or are you? That’s the question.”“I don’t want to run the place, of course. I’m only afraid this paragon of yours is aiming at doing that. What a perfectly beastly afternoon,” she broke off, turning away from the window.“Ah well, we can do with rain,” he answered. “Another night’s downpour ’ll make all the difference in the world. Getting hipped, eh? Go and thump the keyboard a bit—you never get tired of that—and forget the existence of the obnoxious Manamandhla.”“If I shan’t disturb you.”“You know, dear,younever do disturb me,” he answered, tenderly.The girl passed into the other room, and sat down at her piano.“What a little beast I am to him,” she was thinking—“and yet—and yet! It all seems too awful. How I wish he would let me go away, as I wanted to.”The notes came gurgling out under her deft touch, but for once her mind was not in her art. But for the rain she would have taken refuge in some outdoor pursuit; anything, even if it were to climb up to what she called her ‘aerial throne’—dangling between earth and heaven; anything for movement. But the steady rain came down in monotonous drip—drip; moreover, it was a cold rain, and under no circumstance was out-of-doors inviting.Thornhill sat in his library, and took down book after book, but somehow he, too, could not settle down to his favourite pastime. His thoughts were of this child whom he had always idolised, and still did; yet she repaid him by consistently turning away from him. Perhaps if he had affected a like indifference it might have told—women being what they were. Yet, in this case, he could hardly think so; knowing the nature of the cloud that hung between them; even the venom from beyond the grave, and the effects of which he had hoped that time would dim. But time had not done so.Then his thoughts took another turn—towards his surviving son, to wit; and, in the result, a great longing to see him again. He, at any rate, did not share Edala’s attitude. His faith in his father was full, frank and perfect; and he made no secret of the fact. Why should he not come down on a visit. These stock-broking chaps at the Rand nearly always hunted in couples like other predatory professionals. Hyland would be sure to have a partner, or someone who could take charge of his job while he was away. He would write to him, and by Jove, this was post day—in fact the boy who rode post over from Elvesdon’s was almost due, only was usually late. However, it didn’t matter: he could be detained.Thornhill got out sheets of paper. Edala, at the present moment, seemed to be literally obeying his injunctions to ‘thump the keyboard,’ for she was in full swing in the middle of a fine lilting song, to a somewhat thunderous accompaniment, in the other room.“My dear Hyland,” he began:“Don’t you feel like a change of air and scene after your ten months of labour in the City of Gold—dust; and that dust all and entirely in the air, save when it’s in the larynxes and lungs of its eighty odd thousand inhabitants—mostly Hebrews? If so, I should think you could get your brother—shark—to take on your share and his own too, of the process of fleecing the child-like and unwary investor—even as you did—between you—of late, in the matter of a certain ancient relative of one of the firm—who shall be nameless—and that on the ground that there were not sufficient Heathen Chinee-s on the mines. Well then, do so, and load up on board the train as soon as you like after receipt of this, andtrekdown here for as long as you like. Edala is getting a bit hipped. I’m not sure the same doesn’t hold good a little of her—and your—unrespected parent.“Things here are much the same, except that we’ve got a new man at Kwabulazi in the room of old Carston transferred, as the official letters say—a chap named Elvesdon, an exceedingly wide awake, smart chap, and devilish good company. You’re sure to like him. Old Tongwana often asks after you. We’ve also got a new man here—black—named Mana—”Thornhill stopped, then carefully erased the last phrase—he did not know why, perhaps it was due to what Edala had called ‘instinct.’ Then he went on—“There are rows and rumours of rows about possible bother among the people here, mainly over the new poll-tax, as, by the way, you will of course have heard—since all the doings of the known world are known at that hub of the Universe, Johannesburg, about forty-eight hours sooner than they are known—say in London. But it will probably end in smoke. If it doesn’t, such a fire eater as yourself will be more in your element here than there, I should think, after your experiences in Matabeleland, and of the pom-poms of Brother Boer.“Well, load yourself up on the first train you can capture, old chap, and hasten to smoke the pipe of peace under the welcoming roof of—“Your old Governor.”This characteristic letter Thornhill read over, with a chuckle or two, stuck down the envelope and directed it.Hyland Thornhill, Esq.P.O. Box Something or other,Johannesburg.Just then Edala came in.“Hullo. What’s that you’re sending, father?”“Never you mind,” throwing it on the blotting pad, face downwards. “It’s a secret—another secret,” he could not refrain from adding, maliciously.“But I will see,” she returned, making a playful, but tolerably determined snatch at the envelope. “Is it to Hyland? Is it?” as a brown and iron hand effectually baffled her attempt. “You are telling him to come—are you? Are you?”“Ah-ah! Curiosity, thy name is woman!”She had got him by the shoulders, and was shaking him, quite child-like and boisterous. He loved this mood.“There are more people in the world than Hyland,” he said. “Why should I bother about an impudent neglectful rascal who hardly ever takes the trouble to communicate with the author of his being, let alone to come in person and ascertain whether that worthy is dead or not?”“Itisto Hyland. I know it is. And you are telling him to come. You are, father? Say you are. Do you hear? Say you are.”“Oh, keep cool,” ironically, for she was still shaking him by the shoulders. “Learn to trust in—the fulness of time.”It may be that the double meaning was not lost on her. But at that moment there befel an interruption. The dogs at the back of the house had sprung up and were barking furiously.“Post, I suppose?” said Thornhill going to the window.“There! I thought it was to Hyland!” cried Edala, who took the opportunity of snatching up the letter, which lay face downward on the table, and reading the address. “You are telling him to come, aren’t you?”“Time will show,” he answered teasingly. “But telling him’s one thing, whether he’ll do as he’s told is another. A lifelong experience of him, and, incidentally, of his sister, would move me to bet on the latter contingency.”A trampling of hoofs and then the postboy appeared, mounted on an undersized pony and clad in a long military surtout of ancient date. The rain was dripping from the ragged brim of his battered hat, but this affected him not at all, for his black shining face split into a dazzling white grin as he raised his hand in salute. The dogs, who knew him, had retreated, muttering, as though resenting being done out of hostilities; though even now they were sniffing around his utterly indifferent legs, not altogether reassuringly, as having dismounted he came to the door.“Well Gomfu—what is the news?” said Thornhill, taking the leather bag.“News?Au! Nkosewill find all his news in there.”“But nearer than that. Here, I mean.”The boy grinned slyly.“U Jobo is preaching around the locations.Whau! but he is telling news to the people—great news.”This, as we have said, was the native name of that estimable Ethiopian apostle the Rev. Job Magwegwe. Thornhill had heard of him.“Why does not the Government send the police after him,Nkose?” went on the other. “Or are the ears of the Government stopped? Or those of Ntwezi?”Thornhill laughed.“You are not a kolwa (Christian native) then, Gomfu?”The other clicked contemptuously.“I am not a fool,Nkose, TheAbafundisi(Missionaries) preach to us what they do not believe themselves. They say that their God made all men equal, black and white, but what is that but childishness? Equal?Nkose—who ever heard of a white man becoming the servant of a native, but it would take years to count the natives in all the land who are the servants of white men. Equal?Whau!”“That is so, Gomfu.”“Nkose. Again. What if the son of—I do not say a common man but of a chief such as Tongwana, or Zavula, were to sendlobolafor the daughter of anumfundisi, and many of them have daughters—what would be the answer? Would it not be anger at a native presuming to dream of marriage with the daughter of a white man?—of a white man who preaches that black and white are all equal? Certainly it would, and rightly. And we natives who are not fools know this. We want noAbafundisitelling as childishness, particularly Amafengu, such as U Jobo. Equal!Hau!”“Nkosazana!”The latter in salutation of Edala, who appeared at the door.“Father, when you’ve quite done trying to make Gomfu a worse heathen than he is already, and, incidentally, than you are yourself, it might occur to you to bring in the post-bag,” she said.“Gomfu’s quaint theology has the merit of being logical, eke simple,” he answered coming back into the room. “Here’s the bag. Where’s the key? Now then,” he went on, having unlocked the bag and turned out its contents. “Graphic. Country Life. Natal Witness. Eastern Province Herald—that’s enough journalism. Letters? None for you. M-m. One, two, three—all business Four—no. Number 4 isn’t biz, but—yes it is—it’s English. They make our stamps and the English ones so much alike now that there’s no telling the difference. Now I wonder who that can be from,” scrutinising the direction narrowly. “There’s no one in England likely to write to me.”“Father. Look again. You must be getting blind. Why it is one of our stamps after all, and the postmark is Durban—or what’s left of it.”“Has Durban, then, met with nearly total destruction?” he inquired, tranquilly.“Now, don’t be absurd. You know I meant the postmark.”“Oh, the postmark? Small wonder I was in doubt, for the sole use of the average postmark is to throw a hopeless blind on both the locality and the date of posting.”“Well the best way of solving the mystery, and the shortest, would be to open the letter and look at the signature.”“Ah! Ah! A woman’s way of reading a novel—looking at the end first.”“Father, are you going to open that letter or are you not? If you have no curiosity on the subject of an unknown hand I have. And—it’s a feminine hand too.”

“How much longer is that man going to hang about here?” said Edala, gazing, somewhat frowningly, from the window of her father’s book room, which looked out upon the cattle-kraals and the group of huts, occupied by the native servants, which stood adjacent thereto.

“Who? Oh, Manamandhla! Not for long, I should think. Do you know, child, he’s rather an interesting chap to talk to and has become quite civil. He asked me to let him stop on here a bit, and he’d help with the cattle now we’re short-handed.”

“Well, we shall be more so soon, for old Patolo can’t stand him. He’ll be clearing next, you’ll see.”

“Not he. They’ll strike it off all right. Patolo has been cattle-herd-in-chief to me nearly all your life, and knows where he’s well off. And Manamandhla may prove useful in other ways.”

The object of their talk, and the girl’s animadversion, had just emerged from one of the huts. For a moment he stood gazing at the weather, then drawing his ample green blanket close around his tall form, he strode away over the veldt.

“Why have you got such a down on him, child? He’s respectful and civil enough to you, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes—at least for the present.”

“Why should he not continue to be?” went on her father.

“I don’t know. No, I don’t. I suppose it’s—instinct.”

She still stood gazing out of the window, and her face was troubled, even resentful. She could not forget the expression that had come upon her father’s face, fleeting as it had been, when they had first met this man yonder on the summit of Sipazi mountain. It was not his first meeting either, for he had brought home the story of the Zulu’s insolence on that other occasion. She felt puzzled—even suspicious, and therefore resentful.

It was a grey, drizzling afternoon, and the splendour of forest and mountain, lovely in the sparkle of blue sky and dazzling sun, was blotted out by rain and mist, with dreary and depressing effect. Low clouds swept along the base of the heights, whirling back now and then to display some great krantz such as the face of Sipazi, its altitude, multiplied by the dimness, looming up in awful grandeur, to fade again into the murk.

Instinct! Thornhill did not like that word, and it was no mere flash in the pan either. The child was so confoundedly sharp at leaping to conclusions; generally accurate ones too, and that with nothing to go upon. He had tried to assume his normal unconcern of speech and manner, in talking on this subject—for this was not the first time it had been brought up—and could only wonder if he had succeeded.

“Are you afraid of him, then?” he said at last.

“Afraid? No. But I don’t like him, and I wish he’d clear. I don’t believe he’s up to any good at all here.”

“Now, dear, aren’t you just a trifle unreasonable as to this particular ‘bee’ of yours?” said her father, somewhat annoyed. “You say you’re not afraid of him, and I’ve told you the man is useful to me in ways. Now am I to run this farm or are you? That’s the question.”

“I don’t want to run the place, of course. I’m only afraid this paragon of yours is aiming at doing that. What a perfectly beastly afternoon,” she broke off, turning away from the window.

“Ah well, we can do with rain,” he answered. “Another night’s downpour ’ll make all the difference in the world. Getting hipped, eh? Go and thump the keyboard a bit—you never get tired of that—and forget the existence of the obnoxious Manamandhla.”

“If I shan’t disturb you.”

“You know, dear,younever do disturb me,” he answered, tenderly.

The girl passed into the other room, and sat down at her piano.

“What a little beast I am to him,” she was thinking—“and yet—and yet! It all seems too awful. How I wish he would let me go away, as I wanted to.”

The notes came gurgling out under her deft touch, but for once her mind was not in her art. But for the rain she would have taken refuge in some outdoor pursuit; anything, even if it were to climb up to what she called her ‘aerial throne’—dangling between earth and heaven; anything for movement. But the steady rain came down in monotonous drip—drip; moreover, it was a cold rain, and under no circumstance was out-of-doors inviting.

Thornhill sat in his library, and took down book after book, but somehow he, too, could not settle down to his favourite pastime. His thoughts were of this child whom he had always idolised, and still did; yet she repaid him by consistently turning away from him. Perhaps if he had affected a like indifference it might have told—women being what they were. Yet, in this case, he could hardly think so; knowing the nature of the cloud that hung between them; even the venom from beyond the grave, and the effects of which he had hoped that time would dim. But time had not done so.

Then his thoughts took another turn—towards his surviving son, to wit; and, in the result, a great longing to see him again. He, at any rate, did not share Edala’s attitude. His faith in his father was full, frank and perfect; and he made no secret of the fact. Why should he not come down on a visit. These stock-broking chaps at the Rand nearly always hunted in couples like other predatory professionals. Hyland would be sure to have a partner, or someone who could take charge of his job while he was away. He would write to him, and by Jove, this was post day—in fact the boy who rode post over from Elvesdon’s was almost due, only was usually late. However, it didn’t matter: he could be detained.

Thornhill got out sheets of paper. Edala, at the present moment, seemed to be literally obeying his injunctions to ‘thump the keyboard,’ for she was in full swing in the middle of a fine lilting song, to a somewhat thunderous accompaniment, in the other room.

“My dear Hyland,” he began:

“Don’t you feel like a change of air and scene after your ten months of labour in the City of Gold—dust; and that dust all and entirely in the air, save when it’s in the larynxes and lungs of its eighty odd thousand inhabitants—mostly Hebrews? If so, I should think you could get your brother—shark—to take on your share and his own too, of the process of fleecing the child-like and unwary investor—even as you did—between you—of late, in the matter of a certain ancient relative of one of the firm—who shall be nameless—and that on the ground that there were not sufficient Heathen Chinee-s on the mines. Well then, do so, and load up on board the train as soon as you like after receipt of this, andtrekdown here for as long as you like. Edala is getting a bit hipped. I’m not sure the same doesn’t hold good a little of her—and your—unrespected parent.

“Things here are much the same, except that we’ve got a new man at Kwabulazi in the room of old Carston transferred, as the official letters say—a chap named Elvesdon, an exceedingly wide awake, smart chap, and devilish good company. You’re sure to like him. Old Tongwana often asks after you. We’ve also got a new man here—black—named Mana—”

Thornhill stopped, then carefully erased the last phrase—he did not know why, perhaps it was due to what Edala had called ‘instinct.’ Then he went on—

“There are rows and rumours of rows about possible bother among the people here, mainly over the new poll-tax, as, by the way, you will of course have heard—since all the doings of the known world are known at that hub of the Universe, Johannesburg, about forty-eight hours sooner than they are known—say in London. But it will probably end in smoke. If it doesn’t, such a fire eater as yourself will be more in your element here than there, I should think, after your experiences in Matabeleland, and of the pom-poms of Brother Boer.

“Well, load yourself up on the first train you can capture, old chap, and hasten to smoke the pipe of peace under the welcoming roof of—

“Your old Governor.”

This characteristic letter Thornhill read over, with a chuckle or two, stuck down the envelope and directed it.

Hyland Thornhill, Esq.P.O. Box Something or other,Johannesburg.

Hyland Thornhill, Esq.P.O. Box Something or other,Johannesburg.

Just then Edala came in.

“Hullo. What’s that you’re sending, father?”

“Never you mind,” throwing it on the blotting pad, face downwards. “It’s a secret—another secret,” he could not refrain from adding, maliciously.

“But I will see,” she returned, making a playful, but tolerably determined snatch at the envelope. “Is it to Hyland? Is it?” as a brown and iron hand effectually baffled her attempt. “You are telling him to come—are you? Are you?”

“Ah-ah! Curiosity, thy name is woman!”

She had got him by the shoulders, and was shaking him, quite child-like and boisterous. He loved this mood.

“There are more people in the world than Hyland,” he said. “Why should I bother about an impudent neglectful rascal who hardly ever takes the trouble to communicate with the author of his being, let alone to come in person and ascertain whether that worthy is dead or not?”

“Itisto Hyland. I know it is. And you are telling him to come. You are, father? Say you are. Do you hear? Say you are.”

“Oh, keep cool,” ironically, for she was still shaking him by the shoulders. “Learn to trust in—the fulness of time.”

It may be that the double meaning was not lost on her. But at that moment there befel an interruption. The dogs at the back of the house had sprung up and were barking furiously.

“Post, I suppose?” said Thornhill going to the window.

“There! I thought it was to Hyland!” cried Edala, who took the opportunity of snatching up the letter, which lay face downward on the table, and reading the address. “You are telling him to come, aren’t you?”

“Time will show,” he answered teasingly. “But telling him’s one thing, whether he’ll do as he’s told is another. A lifelong experience of him, and, incidentally, of his sister, would move me to bet on the latter contingency.”

A trampling of hoofs and then the postboy appeared, mounted on an undersized pony and clad in a long military surtout of ancient date. The rain was dripping from the ragged brim of his battered hat, but this affected him not at all, for his black shining face split into a dazzling white grin as he raised his hand in salute. The dogs, who knew him, had retreated, muttering, as though resenting being done out of hostilities; though even now they were sniffing around his utterly indifferent legs, not altogether reassuringly, as having dismounted he came to the door.

“Well Gomfu—what is the news?” said Thornhill, taking the leather bag.

“News?Au! Nkosewill find all his news in there.”

“But nearer than that. Here, I mean.”

The boy grinned slyly.

“U Jobo is preaching around the locations.Whau! but he is telling news to the people—great news.”

This, as we have said, was the native name of that estimable Ethiopian apostle the Rev. Job Magwegwe. Thornhill had heard of him.

“Why does not the Government send the police after him,Nkose?” went on the other. “Or are the ears of the Government stopped? Or those of Ntwezi?”

Thornhill laughed.

“You are not a kolwa (Christian native) then, Gomfu?”

The other clicked contemptuously.

“I am not a fool,Nkose, TheAbafundisi(Missionaries) preach to us what they do not believe themselves. They say that their God made all men equal, black and white, but what is that but childishness? Equal?Nkose—who ever heard of a white man becoming the servant of a native, but it would take years to count the natives in all the land who are the servants of white men. Equal?Whau!”

“That is so, Gomfu.”

“Nkose. Again. What if the son of—I do not say a common man but of a chief such as Tongwana, or Zavula, were to sendlobolafor the daughter of anumfundisi, and many of them have daughters—what would be the answer? Would it not be anger at a native presuming to dream of marriage with the daughter of a white man?—of a white man who preaches that black and white are all equal? Certainly it would, and rightly. And we natives who are not fools know this. We want noAbafundisitelling as childishness, particularly Amafengu, such as U Jobo. Equal!Hau!”

“Nkosazana!”

The latter in salutation of Edala, who appeared at the door.

“Father, when you’ve quite done trying to make Gomfu a worse heathen than he is already, and, incidentally, than you are yourself, it might occur to you to bring in the post-bag,” she said.

“Gomfu’s quaint theology has the merit of being logical, eke simple,” he answered coming back into the room. “Here’s the bag. Where’s the key? Now then,” he went on, having unlocked the bag and turned out its contents. “Graphic. Country Life. Natal Witness. Eastern Province Herald—that’s enough journalism. Letters? None for you. M-m. One, two, three—all business Four—no. Number 4 isn’t biz, but—yes it is—it’s English. They make our stamps and the English ones so much alike now that there’s no telling the difference. Now I wonder who that can be from,” scrutinising the direction narrowly. “There’s no one in England likely to write to me.”

“Father. Look again. You must be getting blind. Why it is one of our stamps after all, and the postmark is Durban—or what’s left of it.”

“Has Durban, then, met with nearly total destruction?” he inquired, tranquilly.

“Now, don’t be absurd. You know I meant the postmark.”

“Oh, the postmark? Small wonder I was in doubt, for the sole use of the average postmark is to throw a hopeless blind on both the locality and the date of posting.”

“Well the best way of solving the mystery, and the shortest, would be to open the letter and look at the signature.”

“Ah! Ah! A woman’s way of reading a novel—looking at the end first.”

“Father, are you going to open that letter or are you not? If you have no curiosity on the subject of an unknown hand I have. And—it’s a feminine hand too.”

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