Part 82 (1/2)

”He is not a bird, but he is something else. He is a wizard--a devil.

I tell you I know this white man. He is no ordinary man. I have seen him escape where no one but a wizard could have done it; not once, but twice, three times. Now, are you sure he is dead? Will you leave it to chance?”

A murmur of mingled a.s.sent and incredulity rose from the listeners.

Some shook their heads and smiled scornfully, but the majority evidently thought there was ”something in it.”

”And even if he is dead,” continued the first speaker. ”Even if he is dead, what a war-potion could be made out of the heart of such a man!

Haow!”

This decided them, and, with a ferocious hum of antic.i.p.ation, they started off to descend into the valley round the end of the cliff, and make sure of their prey; leaving a few behind to secure the missionary.

The unfortunate preacher was still lying where he had fallen in a faint, and the Kafirs had been too fully occupied with their princ.i.p.al foe to pay any attention to him. Now, however, they cl.u.s.tered round him, examining him curiously.

”Get up, white man!” cried one of the party, roughly, adding force to the injunction by a sharp p.r.i.c.k with his a.s.segai. The victim gave a groan and opened his eyes, but shut them again with a gasp of terror, and a prayer for mercy escaped his lips at the sight of the scowling dark faces and gleaming a.s.segai points, some of them red with blood.

A muttered consultation took place. The captive must be taken to the chief, Sandili. He was the first white man captured alive during the war.

”Whaow! It is not a warrior, it is a miserable _Umfundisi_,” [Preacher]

said the most important man of the group, with a contemptuous scowl on his fierce, wrinkled countenance. ”We shall frighten him to death if we are not careful. Here, _Umfundisi_!” he continued in a persuasive tone.

”Get up. We are not going to hurt you. Don't be frightened.”

The poor missionary could hardly believe his ears.

”No, no. I am not frightened,” he replied, in a quavering voice, sitting up and looking around; while several of the younger Kafirs spluttered with laughter at his abject appearance. ”No, no--you will not hurt me; I am your friend. I like the Kafirs. You know me--I am a man of peace--not a fighting man--a man of peace.”

The savage leader contemplated him with a sneer upon his face, then with a muttered injunction to the rest, he turned away with a grunt of contempt, whisking the tops off the gra.s.s-stalks with his k.n.o.bkerrie as he strode off in the direction taken by the bulk of the party. A scream of terror arose from the unfortunate missionary. His hands had already been tied behind him; and just then one of the young Kafirs, in sheer devilment, jerked his head back and held the cold edge of an a.s.segai against his throat. The unhappy prisoner thought his hour had come, and closed his eyes, shuddering. A roar of laughter arose from the spectators, and his tormentor let go of him, uttering a disdainful ”click.”

”Take care,” warned one of the older men. ”You'll kill him with fear, among you. That won't do. He must be taken to the Great Chief.”

Meanwhile the searching party had reached the base of the cliff and were working their way along with some difficulty through the bush, while two men remained above to designate the exact spot where the fugitive had fallen. So dense and tangled was the profuse vegetation that it was some time before they could find it, and the rock above, half veiled by largish trees growing up against its surface, afforded no clue.

Suddenly a shout announced that the object of their search was found.

There, in a hollow formed by its own weight, lay the unfortunate horse.

Its legs were doubled under its body, the bones in many places had started through the skin, and it was horribly mangled. The girths had given way and the saddle lay, bent and scratched, partly detached from the carcase. It was a horrid sight.

By twos and threes the Kafirs straggling up, cl.u.s.tered around with exclamations of astonishment. Then a shout arose:

”Where is the white man?”

They looked at one another in blank amazement. There was the horse, sure enough--but--where was the rider?

Where, indeed? The ground all round had been carefully searched, and, unless he was gifted with wings as some of them had derisively suggested, he could not have escaped, for at that point the cliff was sheer. Involuntarily they glanced upwards as if they half expected to see him soaring in the air, laughing at them. They turned over the carcase of the horse, with a kind of forlorn hope that he might be lying crushed beneath--but no--he was not there, nor had they even expected he would be. Fairly puzzled they shook their heads, and a volley of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns expressing astonishment, dismay, even alarm, gave vent to their unbounded surprise.

”There is no trace. He has disappeared into air?” they said.

From all this discussion the tall barbarian who had first suggested the search, had stood aloof. Now he struck in with a kind of ”I told you so” expression in his look and voice:

”Did I not say that the white man was a wizard? Who laughs now? Where is he? Where is the man who jumped from yon height?”