"No--little one. You may take your oath I'll do nothing of the kind.

But I'll bring him--them--back or I won't come back myself. That, also, you may take your oath to," he answered huskily, gruffly. "Now-- good-bye--good-bye."

He disappeared into the darkness. No lights were shown--no fuss was made about seeing them off. So the two women were left alone to weep-- and perchance to pray.

Had it been light enough as the hors.e.m.e.n moved away it might have been seen that they led among them two spare mounts. It might also have been seen that there was another led horse, but it was not a riderless one.

On its back, his feet tied beneath its belly with a raw-hide thong, sat the Zulu prisoner. Though firmly convinced of the good faith of the latter, Hyland had no idea of taking any risks. To a savage, even though riding in their very midst, to slip off into the darkness of the thick bush and disappear would be no impossible feat, but to do so, firmly bound to the horse itself, would be: and this had been explained to him. But he took it with characteristic imperturbability.

"What I have said I will do I will do. What Ugwala says he will do he will do. I am content," was his unruffled comment upon this apparent indignity.

"Attend, Njalo," whispered Hyland, ranging his horse alongside that of the captive. "If you are true to us now and we rescue those whom we seek, letting you escape is not all that will happen to you for good.

Cattle shall be yours--cattle that will make you almost a rich man among your people, after the troubles are all over. That will be good, will it not, and such is my word to you?"

"_Au! Nkose_ has an open hand," answered the man in a gratified tone.

"And I think that the two whom you seek will return with you."

"The _two_ whom you seek," he had said. Not until afterwards did it occur to Hyland to wonder how it was the speaker knew that there were only two left to seek. Here again that wonderful, mysterious native telegraphy must have come in.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

MANAMANDHLA'S STORY.

To the said 'two' it seemed that life could contain no further horrors, and that they had better get it over and done with, and this held good especially of Elvesdon, as the younger and less hardened. Thornhill was speculating as to how it was that Manamandhla, so far from hastening their death, seemed to have averted it. The tumult had not been renewed, and n.o.body had come near them. Then later on they had been allowed to sit outside, and even to stroll about a little as usual. But there seemed to be very few people at the kraal, and, noting this, they looked at each other as though inspired by a new hope.

The day wore on. The unrolled panorama of bush and cliff and spur grew purple and dim in the declining sun. In the mind of both was the thought--Would they see the set of another sun?

"Look here, Thornhill," said Elvesdon as though seized with a sudden impulse. "I don't know whether either of us will get away from here alive, or both. But I want to say something. In case we do, have you any objection to my trying to win your daughter's love?"

If the other was startled he did not show it. The two were seated upon a rock just outside the kraal, watching the changing lights over the far-away kloofs as the sun sank behind the highest ridge to the westward. Both were sc.r.a.ping together the last shreds of their remaining stock of tobacco, which might perhaps afford them a last half pipe apiece.

"Why no," was the meditative answer. "But do you think you can do it, Elvesdon?"

"I had hopes. But why I mention it--here and now of all places--is because if you should get away and I should not, I should like Edala to know that my last thoughts were of her, as indeed all my thoughts have been ever since I've known her. She is unique, Thornhill. I don't suppose there's another girl in the world in the least like her."

"First of all Elvesdon, don't talk of me getting away, and you not. Is that likely now? We stand or fall together. And if they want a second blood feast--the d.a.m.ned butchering brutes--they can take it out of me.

You're the younger man of the two, and have a sight more life in front of you than I have. So you skip away if you see a chance while they are busy with me."

Elvesdon laughed, rather mirthlessly.

"That would be such a n.o.ble way of returning to Edala, wouldn't it? How she'd thank me for coming to tell her I'd left her father to be chopped to pieces in order to save my own precious skin on her account, wouldn't she? No, I'm afraid you must 'ask us another,' Thornhill."

The latter suddenly sprang to his feet.

"Come on Elvesdon. We must buck up, man. We're both getting too much into the holy blues. But the sight of that poor young devil being butchered this morning got on to even my tough old time-hardened nerves, I allow. Well, to get back to what you were saying. If we're lucky and get out of this, you are welcome to try your chances with Edala--from what I've seen of you I can say that wholeheartedly. Only I warn you that--to use your own words--she _is_ unique. But I daresay you've more than half fixed it up between you before this."

"I wish we had," was the answer. And then at a signal from the armed group that watched them, they returned to the hut.

But they found it already tenanted. A man was seated there warming himself by a fire to which he had just applied a light, and the gleam of the darting flames was reflected from his head-ring. Then indeed was astonishment depicted on the faces of both--especially on that of Thornhill--as they recognised the features of Manamandhla.

The Zulu returned their greeting, and sat silent for a few minutes. So did they. Blank amazement was in the mind of one, but the other--hoped.

And he had the least reason to hope anything from the man before him, but he remembered that this man's voice had been raised powerfully for their protection that very day, wherefore he hoped--on his companion's behalf if not on his own. Then Manamandhla spoke.

"My life is yet my own, Inqoto, which is well for some."

Thornhill understood the allusion and--hoped still more. He made the usual murmur of a.s.sent.

"Listen _Abelungu_," went on the Zulu, "and I will tell a story. There were two children--brothers. They fought in the ranks of the _ibuto_ called Ngobamakosi what time the impi of the Great Great One was defeated _kwa Nodvengu_. [Historically known as the battle of Ulundi.]

Both were wounded in the battle, and could not flee far, so when the white hors.e.m.e.n poured forth in pursuit they soon overtook these, who lay down, already dead. The hors.e.m.e.n thundered down upon them, and seeing that they still moved--for who at such a time sees anything but red?-- pointed their pistols. But another white man rode there too and he pointed his pistol too--not at those who lay there but at those who threatened them. They were angry, and words rose high, but they rode on and left those two children, of whom one is alive to-day."

The speaker paused, and began deliberately to take snuff. Elvesdon was interested; Thornhill was more, as he bent his glance keenly upon the dark face before him.

"Time--a long time--rolled on, and one of those 'children,' then a young man no longer, but ringed, sought out the white man who had saved him and his brother from death. He found him and--_au_! he himself became lame for life. For he fell--but he arose again. Then twice after that he escaped death."

Thornhill's face became rigid. He had entertained an angel unawares and had, all unconsciously, done his best to transform him into a devil.

Elvesdon, too, began to see through the veil--though not entirely. He recalled the incident in the kloof when his friend had fired straight at this man, and but for his timely interruption and that of Edala would certainly have shot him dead. The Zulu for his part knew exactly how much to render clear to both and how much to keep dark from one.

"And now Inqoto," he went on. "Thy daughter? What of her?"

"She is safe." There was a rigid eagerness in the tone that by no means conveyed the a.s.surance intended to be conveyed.

"She is safe," was the answer, and Thornhill sank back with a sigh of relief. "Hers was one life saved by those of the two children _kwa Nodwengu_. She, and another, had taken hiding on the tree which grows out from Sipazi-pazi. Two eyes saw them, many others who sought for them on the mountain top--ah ah--on the mountain top--did not. She is safe at Kwabulazi--both are safe."

A great sigh of relief went up from both listeners. They could fill in all the details. But Thornhill, to his companion's amazement went through a strange performance. He leaped to his feet, and the next moment was swinging the narrator to and fro as he sat, with a vice-like hand upon each shoulder.

"Manamandhla, my _brother_!" he exclaimed in a deep, quivering tone.

"You saved her life like this? You? See now. Before I am killed here I will write that on paper which shall give you after the trouble is over what will make you a rich man, and what will protect you if you are known as having taken part in the trouble. Now--now I see everything.

I did not before."

At first the Zulu looked astonished at this outburst, and then his magnificent white teeth showed in a gratified smile.

"_Whau_!" he exclaimed. "A life for a life--that is a safe rule. The life of a woman does not count. The oxen which Inqoto has given to my brother's son pay for that. But the lives of the two 'children'-- warriors in the _ibuto_ known as Ngobamakosi--such are the lives of men.

And these I give ye two--so far as I can," he added somewhat seriously.

"Listen. I am not chief here, Nteseni is. But Nteseni is away with most of his people. This night you must leave. To-morrow may be too late. Here are the weapons you came with--"

From under his blanket he produced two revolvers, the same which had been taken from them at their capture.

"--For food, if you have none, that I cannot help, but you are both strong. Listen. Now I am going out hence, and I shall draw those who watch this hut away with me. When you no longer hear voices, then go forth, but be careful to leave the door of the hut in its place.

_Hambani gahle_!"

He crawled through the low doorway and was gone, leaving the two staring at each other in speechless amazement. To Thornhill, especially, it seemed like a dream. He remembered the long-forgotten incident now recalled, and how in the rout after Ulundi he had saved two youths who had sunk down exhausted in their flight, from being ruthlessly pistolled by two of his own comrades in the troop of irregular Horse in which he was serving--and now this was one of them: this man of whom he had gone in dread as a witness against him, whose blood he had sought with deadly persistency and on two occasions had nearly shed It was wonderful-- wonderful.

And this man--this savage--had been the means of saving Edala--his darling--his idolised child--from a b.l.o.o.d.y death or worse brutalities at the hands of the fiends who sought her! By the side of that the fact of the saving of their own lives counted as nothing--nothing.

"Well, Elvesdon. I think it's time to skip," he said as at last the sound of deep-toned voices died into silence.

Cautiously they took down the door and slipped out, taking care to place it in position again. There was no sign of life in the kraal, except the m.u.f.fled murmur of a few drowsy voices coming from one or two of the huts. In a minute they had gained the welcome darkness of the bush.