"Oh but, you are doing a grave thing, son of Malamu," answered Fleetwood. "You are bringing further ruin upon the nation of Zulu than that which has already befallen it. We are peaceful traders, and there is no war in the land, yet you rush our camp--as if it was Isandhlwana over again--kill our oxen and our servants, and treat us with indignity and even threaten us with death. Do you think our people will allow that to pa.s.s unavenged? _Whau_, Laliswayo! it may mean that such conduct may make the downfall of the Great Great One, the son of Mpande, more complete."

"Peaceable traders!" echoed the chief, with an evil sneer, for he was striving to lash himself up into rage to cover the secret misgiving which these words caused him. "Peaceable traders, _Whau_! Such do not join with those like Inxele. You have shot several of our people Is not that making war?"

"We have not. Look at our guns. Except for mine that went off by accident they have not even been fired. You can see for yourself. All the shooting was done by Inxele. Ask him."

"_Yeh-bo_! Inxele," echoed the bystanders. "We will bring him to life again and ask him," and a rush was made for the spot where Bully Rawson had fallen, stunned and unconscious.

He was no longer there.

Then, indeed, surprise, consternation, was their portion. Why he had been almost killed--so nearly so indeed that they had not thought it worth the trouble of securing him. When he came to they had intended to put him through a few hours of discomfort in which live ashes would play a prominent part, as a preliminary to abolishing him from Zululand in particular and this terrestrial orb in general, and now he had disappeared. The thing was incredible. It was a thing of _tagati_.

How could it have been? How could he have slipped through and got clean away? It was true they had forgotten him in the excitement of these other two whites and the fight between Mtezani and Tulazi, but how could he get away unseen? Further, he was nearly killed. Well, he could not have gone far.

With shouts of ferocious antic.i.p.ation they started to quarter the surroundings in search of him--the _scherm_ had been pulled down from the very first. No--he could not have gone far, and when they did find him, why then a long reckoning would have to be paid for the guns supplied to the enemies of the King.

Like hounds they quartered the ground in every direction. No sign of their quest. Then the bush line was entered. Here they would have him.

He could not go far. Oh no. He could not go far.

But whether he could go far or not, certain it was that they failed to find him. They searched and searched, far beyond the distance he could possibly have reached within the time, but all to no purpose. Well there were still two upon whom they could wreak a cruel vengeance, and now, all the savage aroused within them, they turned back, discussing what they should do with these other two when the chief had given them over, as of course he would.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

"JEALOUSY IS CRUEL AS THE GRAVE."

Warren was seated in his office at Gydisdorp, and his whole power of mind and thought was concentrated on a letter.

It lay on the table before him. It was not externally a pleasing object. It was covered with thumb marks; the writing was in a laboured, unformed hand; the spelling and grammar were vile and the contents cryptic. Yet to him who now sat dwelling upon it the communication was of so jubilant a nature that his only misgiving was that it might be premature or not true. This was strange, for the gist of the doc.u.ment was to announce the death of one who had been his friend.

"Jealousy is cruel as the grave," sings the Wise Man. Warren was not familiar with the quotation but he instinctively, if unconsciously, realised its purport as he sat there conning the greasy, ill-spelt missive whose contents he knew by heart. And yet so paradoxically logical was his own particular temperament that side by side with the wild jubilation that thrilled his whole being over the certainty that the one obstacle in his way was in it no longer, never would be in it again, ran a vein of real regret for the man for whom under any other circ.u.mstances he would have felt a genuine friendship. That he, Gilbert Warren, sat there, in intent, at any rate, a murderer, was the last thing in the world to occur to him. In intent only, as it happened, for the main substance of the communication lay in one sentence, penned in an utterly uneducated style. To be exact it ran thus:

"Wivern and jo fletwood have bin kild by the Usootos."

And then followed further particulars.

Warren had little doubt as to the genuineness of the missive. It was matter of common report that there had been serious disturbances in the remoter parts of Zululand between the faction which cleaved to the captive and exiled King, and that which did not, to wit that influenced by most of the thirteen kinglets appointed under the Wolseley settlement. Wyvern and his friend had somehow got mixed up in one of these ructions, and--there was an end of them.

Unlocking a drawer he got out the portrait of Lalante, and set it upright before him. She was his now; not all at once of course, but when she began to get over her loss, when the first sense of it began to be bluntened. He was far too cautious in his knowledge of human nature to hurry matters; to seem to "rush" her in any way. His was the part of earnest sympathiser. He would sound the dead man's praises in every way, and on every available opportunity. He would make himself necessary to her by doing this when other people had practically forgotten that any such person had ever existed. In time she would turn to him, not for a long time it might be--Warren was shrewd enough to realise this--but time was nothing and he could afford to wait, even as he had waited already, and he knew full well that next to Wyvern there was no man living of whom Lalante held a higher opinion than himself.

The river incident had had much to do with cementing this. Fervently Warren blessed that incident, and had done his best to make the most of it; not by dwelling on it in any way, on the contrary if it was ever mentioned he would pooh-pooh it and change the subject. But he was more than ever welcome at Le Sage's, and made a good deal of his welcome by being frequently there. Moreover he knew that in Le Sage himself he had a powerful and steadfast ally.

All this ran through his busy mind as he gazed at the portrait in a perfect ecstasy of love and pa.s.sion; taking in the splendid outlines of the form, the straight glance of the fearless wide-opened eyes, the seductive attractiveness of the face, firm, yet so sweet and tender.

His! his at last I and yet he would need all his patience. Then a tap at the door brought him back to the practicalities of the hard, business world again. Drawing some papers over the portrait, he sung out:

"Come in."

A clerk entered.

"There's a party downstairs wants to see you, sir. Roughish looking customer too."

"Is he sober?"

"I think so, sir. At least he seems pretty steady on his pins."

"Name?"

"Bexley. Jim Bexley. Said you knew him, sir, and would be sure to see him."

"Right. Show him up when I ring, not before."

When the clerk had gone out Warren replaced the portrait in the drawer, even as we saw him do on a former occasion. He was in no hurry to interview his caller, on the contrary he sat, thinking profoundly, for quite a while. Then he banged on his handbell.

There was a creaking of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs, and the clerk reappeared, ushering in the visitor. Even as the clerk had said he was a roughish looking customer, and he was sober. Him we have seen before, for it was no less a personage than our old friend Bully Rawson.

But the "bully" side of him seemed to have departed. His manner was positively cringing as the door closed behind him, leaving him alone with Warren. The latter gazed at him fixedly for a moment. Then he said:

"Sit down."

Rawson obeyed. But the expression of his face as he stared at Warren was that of a cornered animal, cowed as well, or of one in a trap.

"Have you been keeping sober?"

"Yes, Mr Warren. But Lord love ye, if I was never so 'on' I wouldn't blab."

"No, you wouldn't, because you've nothing to blab about."

The tone was absolutely cool and unmoved. With one hand Warren was playing with a paper weight which lay on the table. Rawson fidgetted uneasily.

"I've taken care of him," he said at last. "Oh three times I 'took care of him,' but it were no go. That blanked Fleetwood come in the way twice, the third time I turned it over to a n.i.g.g.e.r of mine and he got 'took care of' instead. Haw-haw-haw!"

"Howling joke, isn't it?"

"Rather. Them blanked Usutus rushed my kraal, and I just took 'em on to Wyvern and Fleetwood's camp and--well, they took care of 'em."

"You saw it done?"

"Didn't I! And while they was doing it I lit out, slid up a big baobab which looked hollow, and sure enough it was; and there I lay snug while they was huntin' around in every direction for me. Ho-ho! There was a nest of red ants in the hole though, and I jolly well got nearly eaten."

"Yes? Well, you stay around here a little longer--where, I don't mind one way or the other. Only--keep sober. D'you hear? Keep sober. I may want you at any minute. Meanwhile I'll just take down all particulars of your yarn."

He got a sheet of foolscap and put the other through his statement, taking down the details in a concise, business-like way. The only thing on which Rawson seemed hazy was the exact date. He had no call to bother about that sort of thing up-country, he explained apologetically, in fact he hardly knew one day of the week from another, so completely had he got out of the way of reckoning by time.

This done, Rawson shuffled a little uneasily, then said:

"All my things were looted, Mr Warren. I'm a beggar as I stand here, so help me. Couldn't you let us have something to start me afresh?"

"Not a rix-dollar."