Part 90 (2/2)

It was a frightful moment for Claverton; even though he knew that he was for the time being safe, yet the position was one calculated to try the strongest nerves. And it was but delaying the hour. He had small hopes that the councillors would decide to spare his life. It might be that they would elect to keep him prisoner a little longer; there was just this chance, and it was worth next to nothing at all.

”Aha, Lenzimbi! Did I not tell you it would come to this?” mocked Mopela, gloating over his helpless enemy. ”In a few minutes I shall put one of those red-hot irons into your eye--slowly--slowly--like this,”

and he ill.u.s.trated his blood-curdling speech by taking one of the hot nails from the fire and gently boring a hole in the ground. The crowd had fallen back now, leaving an open s.p.a.ce around the prisoner and his guards.

”Ha! What is this?” he continued, as something bright was disclosed to view through the open breast of the prisoner's s.h.i.+rt; and, inserting his fingers, he drew out a chain, at the end of which hung a large and curiously-wrought locket of steel. The chain was clasped so near to the wearer's throat that there was no getting it off by any method short of decapitation, it being fastened by a secret spring. In vain the savage jerked and tugged at the loose end by which the locket hung down on Claverton's chest. It was of strong steel, and showed no signs of giving.

”Haow! Lenzimbi's charm!” he cried. ”We must take it away, then Lenzimbi will be weak and full of fear. This is what makes him strong.

We must take it away.”

But this was easier said than done, for the chain was made of stout metal. At last a pair of pincers was procured, and Mopela wrenched and twisted with all the strength of his muscular grip.

”Take care what you are about!” whispered Claverton, his face livid with deadly rage. ”The man who succeeds in taking that off will die on the spot. It is magic. Take care!”

For answer the savage only laughed, and redoubled his efforts to break the chain. A snap--a wrench--another snap--and Mopela sprang to his feet, triumphantly holding up the locket, with three inches of chain dangling from his hand, and crying: ”Lo! the white man's charm?”

Claverton's face was pale as death, white to the very lips, but his eyes were glowing like coals of fire. The crowd was watching him curiously.

Already the removal of the charm had begun to take effect, they thought.

How it happened he himself could not have told to save his life, but the locket, which seemed as close as an unbroken egg-sh.e.l.l as Mopela was turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly flew open, disclosing, to the astonished eyes of the savage, the face of Lilian Strange. Yes, there it was, beautiful and lifelike, an exquisitely-painted miniature-- her own work. A tender smile played round the curves of the sweet mouth, and the lovely eyes, opening wide beneath their long lashes, looked out with a calm, glad, trustful air that was inexpressibly bewitching. Even the warm flush beneath the delicate olive skin, and the soft wealth of bronzed, dusky hair, was true to the very life. A bordering of forget-me-nots, beautifully painted, was wound round the portrait, and in the opposite compartment of the locket reposed a thick coil of hair, matching exactly that in the miniature, and half hidden beneath this was the letter ”L,” painted in blue upon a white ground.

And this token of the purest, holiest love wherewith man was ever blest, was now held in the rude hand and gazed upon by the bold eyes of a savage. The firelight destined to wither up the limbs of her lover glowed upon the sweet, delicate features of Lilian, portrayed there, lifelike in her radiant beauty; and still Mopela stood gazing into the locket which lay in his hand, fairly lost in wondering amazement.

”Whaow!” he exclaimed. ”Lenzimbi should have brought her here;” and then his voice was jammed in his throat. He was choking. For a marvellous thing had happened, and a shout arose from the crowd--a shout of awe, and consternation, and warning. The prisoner was free.

A madman, we know, is at times endowed with superhuman strength.

Claverton was for the moment mad, and the stout raw-hide thongs fell from him like packthread, as with one tiger bound, he sprang upon Mopela and bore him to the earth. Then digging his knee into the shoulders of the barbarian, who had fallen face downwards, he grasped him by the hair and thrust his head into the blazing fire. It was all done in a twinkling, and a deathly hush was upon the bystanders, who seemed thunderstruck. He might even have escaped; but no thought had he of anything other than vengeance. He seemed transformed into a wild beast.

His eyes started from their sockets, and he gnashed his teeth as he literally ground the glowing cinders with the face of the prostrate man, till the flesh crackled horribly and roasted in the heat, and even then his fury seemed but to increase.

With a loud shout the Kafirs, recovering from their momentary stupor, threw themselves upon him. He hardly saw them, he continued to beat his adversary's head into the fierce fire without heeding them. They dragged him off and secured him, but with difficulty; he was mad. Then some of them raised Mopela. The huge barbarian presented an awful appearance. The whole of his face was peeled and blackened--burnt to a cinder--and the sight of both his eyes was for ever destroyed. He lay, half insensible, and moaning like an animal.

”There!” shouted Claverton, in ringing tones. ”There! That is my vengeance. That dog lying yonder dared to profane with his filthy eyes what was sacred. Now he will never see with those eyes again. They are taken from him. He will be in darkness until he dies.”

A vengeful murmur rose among his listeners. Suddenly some one cried:

”The charm--where is the charm?”

Where, indeed? They looked around--on the ground--in the fire-- everywhere. In vain. Of the steel locket there was no sign. It had completely disappeared.

But the wonder and speculation of the superst.i.tions savages was nipped in the bud by a mandate from Sandili that the prisoner should again be brought before him.

And now, once more, Claverton stood before that semicircle of dark, stern countenances, but he read no hope. They were about to doom him to torture and to death. Around pressed the crowd, eager, expectant, the women and children jostling against the warriors in front, struggling to obtain a view of the proceedings. Every now and then a red flash of lightning played upon the half-naked figures of the barbarians, and upon a.s.segai points, and rolling eyeb.a.l.l.s, and necklaces of jackals' white teeth and all the savage paraphernalia wherewith the fierce, lithe forms were decked.

A silence was upon all as the wizard stood, looking like a figure conjured up from h.e.l.l, haranguing the a.s.sembly. The burden of his speech was a mere repet.i.tion of the wrongs they had suffered at the hands of the white men in general, and this one in particular, whom he now claimed on behalf of the nation, in pursuance of unvarying custom.

And at his words a shout of a.s.sent went up from the fierce crew standing around.

”Give him to us!” they cried. ”Give him to us, Great Chief!”

Then Sandili was about to speak, to utter the words of doom, when, in a strong, ringing voice which echoed through that savage fastness like the notes of a clarion, the prisoner cried:

”Stop! I, too, have something to say; listen to it all of you. First of all, who is this Nomadudwana, that claims to direct your councils? I will tell you--”

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