They dived into the bush, penetrating it higher up into the kloof. By the time they halted it was not the hundred yards it looked, but over two.

"This will do," she said. "Now you're not to miss."

Their position was a little plateau, whence they could see without being seen. First-rate shots could be obtained of everything that ran out-- and everything that did run out would pa.s.s within easy range, by reason of the narrowness of the way. Above, too, they would have ample warning of anything coming, for the bush though just thick enough, was not too dense.

"_Diane cha.s.seresse_, you are splendid to-day," whispered Elvesdon as they took up their position. She looked straight into his face, and on hers came a half resentful expression.

"Oh now, now. That'll do," she answered, half pettishly. "I suppose you think because I'm a girl I've no business in this sort of thing at all. I know I'm about the only one who goes in for it--except in England. There you get the d.u.c.h.ess of this and the Countess of that, and Lady Tom Noddy and all the rest of them placarded in the ill.u.s.trated weeklies in shooting costume, with their guns, and so on; but here--oh no, the ordinary she-mortal mustn't touch sport, just because she is a she. What?"

"Nothing. Don't be so petulant."

"Ah--ah! That's what you were thinking. I know it."

"Don't crow now. You're not a thought-reader. And,"--he added to himself, "I sometimes wish you were."

She made an impatient movement--something, we believe, of the nature of that which our grandmothers called a 'flounce.'

"Why shouldn't I shoot bushbucks?" she said, defiantly. "Tell me."

"When you have told me when I said you shouldn't. Now why on earth have you raised all this bother about nothing in the world? Tell me."

She looked at him for a moment as though not knowing whether to be angry or not. But the insidious imitation of her tone in the last two words was too much, and she burst out laughing.

"Ssh!" he said, reprovingly. "We mustn't make such a row, or Prior will get all the shots. Nothing will come our way."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the dogs burst into cry again. But the sound did not come their way, whatever had been roused had broken away at right angles. Then away back and above there rang out a shot.

"Prior again," whispered Elvesdon. "What did I tell you?"

They waited in silence. Then Edala whispered:

"Poor chance now. There's Manamandhla just underneath. The drive is nearly over."

The Zulu was, as she had said, just beneath. He had halted, and bending down seemed to be trying to get a thorn out of his foot. At the same time Thornhill appeared in sight riding slowly down the other side.

Suddenly he caught sight of Manamandhla.

He was barely a hundred yards away. The very expression of his face, the quick, stealthy manner in which he had dismounted--was apparent to the two watchers--and then--Thornhill was taking deliberate aim at the unconscious Zulu. At that short distance he could not miss.

The sharp, warning cry that escaped the pair came too late--yet not, for the bullet just grazed its intended mark, and glancing off a rock hummed away right over Edala's head, so near, indeed, that she involuntarily ducked.

"Father. It's Manamandhla," she cried. "You nearly shot him."

"Did I. Serve him right if I had," came back the answer. "What's the fool doing stalking on all fours instead of keeping on his hind legs?

That's the way to get shot by mistake in thick bush."

Edala and her companion had exchanged glances. Neither had meant to do so, wherefore the glance of each was quick, furtive, involuntary. And the glance of each revealed to the other that both knew that that shot had not been fired by mistake at all.

"You nearly shot me too, father," Edala said, as he joined them, and there was an unconscious coldness in her tone. Thornhill's face lost colour.

"You had no business to be where you are," was all he said whatever he may have felt. "Your position was quite two hundred yards further down.

Nothing brings about shooting accidents so much as people changing the positions they arranged to take up."

"Lucky we did or Manamandhla would have been shot," she returned, and felt angry with herself for being unable to restrain a certain significance in her tone.

"That he most a.s.suredly would. You sang out just too late to keep me from firing but not too late to spoil my aim."

But the man most concerned, was the least concerned of all. Manamandhla himself to wit. From his demeanour he need not have just experienced the narrowest shave he was ever likely to have in his life. When Thornhill rated him he merely smiled and said nothing.

"Well, we can reckon the day as over," said Thornhill, as Prior and Evelyn joined them at the bottom of the kloof--the latter had bagged what had been driven out in front of him, a duiker ram to wit. "We might have done better, and we might have done worse. Five bushbucks and a duiker among four guns--"

"And a vaal koorhaan," put in Elvesdon. "Don't forget the vaal koorhaan, Thornhill. _Diane cha.s.seresse_ has the honours of the day."

"Hear, hear!" cried Prior.

Thornhill laughed--easily, carelessly. He instinctively felt that both his daughter and Elvesdon were aware that if his last shot had been successful Manamandhla would have met his death by no accident at all.

But he was not the man to give himself away.

"Sorry for your ill luck, Elvesdon," he said. "We may get another chance on the way home, even now."

"Oh that's all right. I'm a bit 'off' to-day, I suppose. Better luck next time."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

PEACE--AND POTENTIALITIES.

"If I had had such a father as yours, Edala, I should simply have worshipped him."

"I daresay. In fact it strikes me that that's just about what you're doing with regard to mine."

The retort was crisp, not to say scathing. Evelyn Carden was angry with herself for changing colour slightly, the while those clear blue eyes were pitilessly searching her face. But she was not going to quarrel with Edala, so she answered conciliatorily:--

"Now dear, you know I never meant to offend you. Why should I? We have got on so well together. What I said was for your own happiness; that and nothing else. Of course I've no earthly right to even seem to 'lecture' you."

"Not yet," was the still more scathing retort which arose to the other girl's lips. Fortunately she checked it. She looked up, as though waiting for more.

"I am not a gushing person, Edala dear, but I have grown very fond of you since I have been here. I would not have said anything about this estrangement but that it suddenly struck me--and struck me with horror-- that I might have been the unconscious cause of deepening it, or at any rate that you thought I had been. So I think I will find some excuse and--move on."

Edala softened. She was really fond of the other, and did not, in her heart of hearts, wish to see the last of her.

"No, you won't, Evelyn," she answered with characteristic decisiveness.

"You'll stay where you are. Never mind me. If I said anything beastly I'm more than sorry."

What Thornhill had half welcomed in advance had come about. Edala was jealous. All that she might have done for her father, and had neglected to do, was done by their visitor. Did he want anything found for him-- from some article mislaid, to some quotation in the course of his recreative studies--Evelyn was the one to do it, not Edala. Or did he want a companion in his semi-professional rides about the farm, Evelyn never by any chance refused or made excuse, but Edala often did, not only of late but when they had been alone together. In short, at every turn he met with far more consideration from this stranger than from his own child.

The incident which had led to the present discussion had occurred the day before, and was of just such a nature. Edala did not care to go out; it was too hot; besides, she had something else to do. But Evelyn had made no such excuse.

"I'm afraid I'm straining your good nature to cracking point," Thornhill had more than once remarked on such occasions. "It's rather more cheerful having some one with you than not, but I believe you never say 'No' because you think it a duty not to."