Part 91 (2/2)

”Lenzimbi!”

In spite of himself, Claverton could not restrain a start. He did not recognise the voice, but the whole action had been suspicions to a degree. Surely he was dreaming.

”Whaow!” exclaimed one of the Kafirs in a brutal tone. ”This is poor work. Let's amuse ourselves a little with the cursed white dog!” and the speaker struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe, and, with a start of amazement, Claverton recognised the rugged, ma.s.sive features of Xuvani, the ex-cattle-herd of Seringa Vale.

Hardly able to believe his eyes, he stared again and again; but there the old man was, his face distinctly visible as he pressed down the tobacco with his middle finger, blowing out great clouds of smoke from his thick, bearded lips. The discovery, however, brought Claverton no hope. Yielding to the combination of circ.u.mstances, he had long pitched that article overboard, as he told himself, and watched it sink, and now the sooner the whole s.h.i.+p went after it the better. And then, like lightning, there flashed upon his recollection the words: ”_The future is uncertain, and we never know what turn events may take, and that if ever at any time he or Tambusa can render you a service they will do so, even should it be at the risk of their lives--a life for a life_.” How well he remembered Hicks translating the old cattle-herd's speech--that day long ago in the sunny garden at Seringa Vale--and how little importance he had attached to the Kafir's professions of grat.i.tude! He had not believed in them then, nor did he now in the gloomy night of his abandonment and downfall. Grat.i.tude! No. The word was not in the Kafir vocabulary, he thought, in bitter scorn, as again the brutal, mocking tones of the old savage fell upon his ear.

But along with them--covered by them, as it were--came that whisper again.

”It may be that Lenzimbi will watch the sun arise from among the tents of his people.”

”Who speaks?” whispered Claverton, quickly.

”A friend. Tambusa.”

”Ah!”

For a moment he could not speak--could scarcely think. His nerves had been terribly strained within the last forty-eight hours; and now the rush of blood to his head, the sudden overpowering revulsion of hope, succeeding the black, outer gloom of despair, would have been dangerous to the very reason of one less philosophically endowed. Life--liberty-- revenge, and after that--love! He dared not think of it. Yet it was within his grasp once more. These two were about to redeem their promise. They would save him yet.

He had not seen them before, for the simple reason that they had only arrived at the kraal after he had been thrown into the hut; and then by the merest chance. And now, like the bright warming suns.h.i.+ne let into a cold dungeon which had never known daylight, came that friendly whisper through the darkness.

”I am ready,” he replied. ”Just slip off these bits of _reimpje_, Tambusa; and give me an a.s.segai and a stick or something, and start me outside, and then if ever these devils get hold of me again, why, they're welcome to.”

”Not yet, 'Nkos, not yet,” whispered the young Kafir. ”Too soon, too soon; there are still some of them awake. Leave it to us.”

What a lifetime now was every moment to the prisoner! Each rain-drop seemed to fall with a crash like thunder; every sound was to his fevered impatience as the beat of footsteps coming to rend from him for ever this one last chance. The old man still sat by the door, occasionally growling out curses upon the dog of a white wizard, and wis.h.i.+ng it was morning that they might begin their horrid work; but this the captive knew now to be only a blind. Hours--weeks--years--seemed to roll by in that terrible suspense; in reality it was scarcely more than half an hour.

At length some one touched him in the darkness, and this time it was Xuvani who spoke.

”Don't rise, Lenzimbi. Make the blood circulate, but do it quietly.

Don't move from your place until I tell you,” and, dexterously feeling his way, the old man, in a couple of slashes, cut through the prisoner's bonds.

”Ah, that's better,” whispered Claverton, stretching his limbs, which had been terribly cramped, so securely had they bound him. ”But I say, Xuvani, there's a poor devil of a preacher shut up here somewhere.

Couldn't we bring him out, too?”

”Do I owe the _Umfundisi_ anything?” was the cold reply. ”Lenzimbi shall go free, but I would not stir an arm to save a townfull of these black-coated preachers. If this white man is a real prophet, his G.o.d will save him; if not, the Gaikas may do what they please with him--I care not.”

Now, I am aware that by all the laws of romance Claverton should have absolutely refused to accept his own deliverance rather than desert a countryman, whoever he might be. But, even at the risk of his irretrievably losing the reader's good opinion, the fact must be recorded that not only did no such wild idea enter his head for a moment, but that he there and then dismissed all thought of his companion in adversity from his mind. What was this cowardly, egotistical, ”shoppy” preacher to him? He had never seen him before they had picked him up in the bush, and certainly had no great wish ever to see him again. If it had been Hicks or Armitage, or any of his old comrades, even Allen, the case would have been vastly different; but to sacrifice himself, Lilian, everything, for such as this--no, not he.

”Xuvani,” he suddenly exclaimed. ”Where is the 'charm' that was taken from me to-day? I cannot leave that behind.”

”Whaow! It is lost,” replied the old Kafir, a little impatiently.

”Stand up, now, and roll yourself in that blanket, for it is time to start.”

But Claverton did not move. A queer freak had taken possession of him.

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