Part 48 (1/2)
”Water, water,” moans the sick man, throwing his arms wildly out of bed.
”_Aow! Manzi_!” murmur the two Matabili, not understanding, but with ready wit guessing the burden of his cry, and simultaneously making a move towards the earthen bowl containing the desired fluid.
But the young native was before them, and, motioning one of them to raise him, he held the bowl to his master's lips.
”Ah-h-h,” exclaimed the dying man, falling back with a relieved sigh, and lying with closed eyes. Then he started again. ”Where is it?” he cried, his fingers clutching spasmodically at something in his breast, which he drew out and held tightly clasped in his hand. ”Lilian-- Lilian--It died with me. Your writing--the only thing I have left of you--Lilian--!” He paused a moment, breathless.
Then he sprang up raving. ”Sam! Sam! Where are you, you d.a.m.ned rascal? Sam; do you hear? Go and tell her--find Lilian,” and then as if the beloved name calmed and soothed him, he sank back with a quiet smile.
”What does he say?” asked the two Matabili of each other. ”Liliane-- Liliane. Aow! That must be the name of the white man's G.o.d.” And they repeated the name over and over to themselves, so as to remember exactly what the stranger had said, when they should report the matter to their king.
He had come there, this stranger, but a few days previously, he and his native attendant. He had come alone, travelling through their land, as he said, on his way far, far into the interior beyond, and had stayed with them, living as they lived, talking with them a little, but usually grave, taciturn, and sad. He would wander about all day in the mountains with his double gun, bringing back game at night, buck or birds, which he shared freely with them, and now he had become ill; no doubt caught the malaria while lying out all night down by the river, trying to get a shot at the lion, whose spoor had been seen by a boy who was wandering on its banks, and who had fled terrified at the sight of the great round pads in the sand. And Mgcekweni, the petty chief of the neighbourhood, was in sore perplexity about this stranger lying at the point of death within their gates; and over and above the fear that his royal master, with all the unreasoning caprice of a despot, would hold him and his responsible, he had a genuine liking for the white man--the grave, quiet traveller, whom he had at once set down as a big ”_Inkoa_”
among his own people.
Cras.h.!.+
The thunder pealed without; a vivid blaze of lightning lit up the interior of the hut, leaving it more gloomy than before in its semi-darkness; the rain poured in torrents, las.h.i.+ng up the hard earth outside, and there, in the weird light, stood the tall, erect forms of the Matabili chief and his brother, conversing in subdued whispers, and with a world of concern clouding their dark, expressive faces. Kneeling beside his master, intently watching every change of his countenance, crouched the native boy, Sam. Again the thunder crashed and roared, and the scathing blaze darted through the pouring rainfall which hurled itself to the earth with a deafening rush; and amid the fierce warring of the elements let loose the wanderer lay dying. Yes, dying. Alone in a barbarous hut, racked with fever; tossing on a rude couch, almost on the bare earth; far from friendly or loving glance or touch; not even a countryman within hundreds of miles; alone in that gloomy apartment, the c.o.c.kroaches chasing each other along the wattles of the thatch overhead, and tall, savage warriors watching his failing moments in wondering, half-superst.i.tious concern. Thus he lay.
Suddenly he raised himself and sat upright.
”Lilian! Lilian!” he cried, in a voice so loud and clear that it startled his savage auditors. ”Ah, I _will_ see you,” he went on, his eyes dilating and fixed on the opposite wall as if to pierce through it and all s.p.a.ce.
”I _will_ see you--and I can. I see you here, now, here beside me. Are you going with me? Keep those sweet eyes upon mine, as they are now, darling--ever--ever--ever.”
His voice sank, and with a glad smile he fell back and lay perfectly still, and without the faintest movement.
”He is dead!” exclaimed the savages, holding their breath.
Precisely at that moment Lilian Strange was uttering her pa.s.sionate, despairing invocation, as she gazed through her open cas.e.m.e.nt far into the clear, starry night.
The day broke upon Seringa Vale, and the rain gusts howled along the wind-swept wastes--violent, biting, and chill. But by noon there was not a cloud in the heavens, and Lilian had her wish, for the mountains were thickly covered with snow to their very base. And as she gazed upon the distant peaks starting forth from the blue sky, spotless and dazzling in their whiteness, it seemed to her that they might be a meet embodiment of her own frozen despair--ever the same--icebound sight and day--through calm and through storm.
And the sun shone down upon the land in his undimmed glory, plenty and prosperity reigned everywhere; not a whisper of war or disturbance was in the air, indeed, all such had died away as completely as if it had never been. And the hearts of the dwellers on the frontier were glad within them--for the red tide, once threatening, had been stayed, and upon their borders rested, in all its fulness, the blessing of Peace.
Part II.
Once where Amatola mountains rise up purple to the snow, Where the forests hide the fountains, And green pastures sleep below-- Sweeter far than song of battle, On the breezes of the morn, Came the lowing of our cattle And the rustling of our corn.
Where our flocks and herds were feeding Now the white man's homestead stands; And while yet his sword lies bleeding, Lo, his plough is in new lands.
_Lament of Tyala_--Anon.
VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ONE.
”IS IT PEACE OR WAR? BETTER WAR.”
George Payne rode slowly away from the village of Komgha.
The air was warm and balmy, for the time of the southern winter was past, and on this September day not even the lightest of feathery clouds flecked the sky above the sunny plains of British Kaffraria. Now and again on the brow of one of the rolling eminences, which, smooth gra.s.sy, and round, alternated with mimosa-dotted vales, the rider might feel a puff of fresh air from the bine Indian Ocean thirty miles away, and which he was leaving further and further behind him with every tread of his steed. On his left front rose the round tops of the Kabousie hills, while beyond them a ridge of wooded heights slept in the golden haze of the early afternoon.
But he had little thought to spare for beauties of scenery, had this man, as he mechanically urged on his steed--a compact, well-stepping roadster--now at a long easy canter, now subsiding into a fast walk; for all his reflections were at that moment concentrated on the leading question of the day, a question which for weeks past had been in the mind of every dweller on that restless line of frontier, a question which to them was fraught with weighty apprehension--Peace or War?