"He stands a fair chance of being burnt too. But listen, Ncanduku. You have no quarrel against the _Inkosikazi_. [Literally Chieftainess. In this instance `lady.'] Surely not a man of the House of Gaika would harm her!"

The chief shook his head with a troubled expression.

"Let her go, too!" he said emphatically. "Let her go, too, and that as soon as possible. When the red wave of war is rolling over the land, there is no place where the delicate feet of white women may stand dry.

We are friends, Ixeshane. For your sake, and for that of the _Inkosikazi_, tell Umlilwane to gather together his cattle and to go."

"We are friends, indeed, Ncanduku. But how long can we be so? If war breaks out between our people how can I sit still? I cannot. I must fight--must fight for my own race, and in defence of our property. How, then, can we remain friends?"

"In war-time every man must do his duty," answered the Gaika. "He must obey the word of his chief and fight for his race and colour."

"Truly spoken and well understood. And now a warning for a warning. If I had the ears of your chiefs and _amapakati_ [Councillors] this is what I should say: Do not be drawn into this war. Let the Gcalekas fight out their own quarrel. They stand upon wholly different ground. If they are vanquished--as, of course, they will be in the long run--the Government will show them mercy, will treat them as a conquered people.

But you, and the other tribes within the colonial border, are British subjects. Queen Victoria is your chief, not Kreli, not Sandili, not Seyolo, not Ndimba--no man of the House of Gaika or Hlambi, but the White Queen. If you make war upon the Colony the Government will treat you as criminals, not as a conquered people, but as rebels against the Queen, your chief. You will be shown no mercy. Your chiefs will very likely be hung and your fighting men will be sent to the convict prisons for many a long year. That when you are beaten. And how long can you carry on the war? Things are not as they were. The country is not as it was. Think of the number of soldiers that will be sent against you; of the police; of the settlers, who will turn out to a man--all armed with the best breechloaders, mind. And what sort of weapons have you?

A few old muzzle loaders more dangerous to the shooter than to his mark.

What can you do with these and your a.s.segais against people armed with the best rifles in the world? I am indeed your friend, Ncanduku, and the friend of your race. Let my warning sink deep in your mind, and carry it to the chiefs. Let them be wise in time."

"The words of Ixeshane are always the words of wisdom," said the Kafir, rising in obedience to the other's example. "But the young men are turbulent. They will not listen to the counsels of their elders. The cloud grows darker every day. I see no light," he added, courteously holding the stirrup for Eustace to mount, "Go in peace, Ixeshane, and remember my warning."

And gathering up his a.s.segais the chief disappeared among the trees, following the direction taken by the larger party.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"THE TAIL WAGS THE DOG."

Eustace had plenty to occupy his thoughts during his homeward ride. The emphatic warning of the Gaika chief was not to be set aside lightly.

That Ncanduku knew more than he chose to say was evident. He had spoken out very plainly for one of his race, who dearly love veiled hints and beating around the bush. Still there was more behind.

Especially did the chief's perturbation when Eanswyth was referred to strike him as ominous to the last degree. Even in war-time there are few instances of Kafirs seriously maltreating white women, and Eanswyth was well liked by such of her dusky neighbours as she had come in contact with. Yet in the present case so thoroughly hated was her husband that it was conceivable they might even strike at him through her.

Why had Carhayes not fallen in with the armed party instead of himself, thought Eustace bitterly. That would have cut the knot of the difficulty in a trice. They would not have spared him so readily. They were Gcalekas, Hlangani's tribesmen. Hlangani's wound would have been avenged, and Eanswyth would by this time be free.

Very fair and peaceful was the aspect of the farm as the last rise brought it full into the horseman's view. The bleating of sheep, mellowed by distance, as the flocks streamed forth white upon the green of the _veldt_, and the lowing of cattle, floated upon the rich morning air--together with the sound of voices and laughter from the picturesque group of native huts where the farm servants dwelt. Doves cooed softly, flitting among the sprays of mimosa fringing the mealie lands; and upon the surface of the dam there was a shimmer of silver light. All seemed peaceful--happy--prosperous; yet over all brooded the red cloud of war.

Eustace felt his pulses quicken and his heart stir as he strained his eyes upon the house, to catch maybe the flutter of a light dress in the veranda. Many a morning had he thus returned from a ride without so much as a heartstirring. Yet now it was different. The ice had been broken. A new light had been let in--a sweet new light, glowing around his path like a ray of Paradise. They understood each other at last.

Yet did they? How would she receive him--how greet him after the disclosure of last night? Would she have thought better of it? For the first time in his life he felt his confidence fail him.

"Hallo, Eustace! Thought you had trekked off somewhere for the day,"

growled Carhayes, meeting him in the doorway. "Been looking up some of your blanket friends?"

"Where are you off to yourself, Tom?" was the reply. For the other was got up in riding boots and breeches, as if for a journey.

"To Komgha--I'm going over to lay an information against Nteya. I'll have the old _schelm_ in the _tronk_ by to-night."

"Not much to be taken by that, is there? Just come this way a minute, will you? I've heard something you may as well know."

With a mutter and a growl Carhayes joined him outside. In a few words Eustace conveyed to him Ncanduku's warning. It was received characteristically--with a shout of scornful laughter.

"Gammon, my dear chap. I never funked a n.i.g.g.e.r yet and I never will.

And, I say. You'd better take a ride round presently and look after the sheep. I've been obliged to put on Josane's small boy in Goniwe's place, and he may not be up to the mark. I daresay I'll be back before dark."

"Well, the sheep will have to take their chance, Tom. I'm not going out of call of the homestead while Eanswyth is left here alone."

"Bosh!" returned Carhayes. "She don't mind. Has she not been left alone here scores of times? However, do as you like. I must be off."

They had been walking towards the stable during this conversation.

Carhayes led forth his horse, mounted, and rode away. Eustace put up his, and having cut up a couple of bundles of oat-hay--for they were short of hands--took his way to the house.

He had warned his cousin and his warning had been scouted. He had struggled with a temptation not to warn him, but now it came to the same thing, and at any rate his own hands were clean. The journey to Komgha was long, and in these times for a man so hated as Tom Carhayes, might not be altogether safe, especially towards dusk. Well, he had been warned.

Eustace had purposely taken time over attending to his horse. Even his strong nerves needed a little getting in hand before he should meet Eanswyth that morning; even his pulses beat quicker as he drew near the house. Most men would have been eager to get it over; would have blundered it over. Not so this one. Not without reason had the Kafirs nicknamed him "Ixeshane"--the Deliberate.

Eanswyth rose from the table as he entered. Breakfast was over, and Tom Carhayes, with characteristic impulsiveness, had started off upon his journey with a rush, as we have seen. Thus once more these two were alone together, not amid the romantic witchery of the southern night, but in the full broad light of day.

Well, and then? Had they not similarly been together alone countless times during the past year? Yes, but now it was different--widely different. The ice had been broken between them.

Still, one would hardly have suspected it. Eanswyth was perfectly calm and composed. There was a tired look upon the sweet face, and dark circles under the beautiful eyes as if their owner had slept but little.

Otherwise both her tone and manner were free from any trace of confusion.

"I have put your breakfast to the kitchen fire to keep warm, Eustace,"

she said. "Well, what adventures have you met with in the _veldt_ this morning?"

"First of all, how good of you. Secondly--leaving my adventures in abeyance for the present--did you succeed in getting any rest?"

He was looking straight at her. There was a latent caress in his glance--in his tone.

"Not much," she answered, leaving the room for a moment in order to fetch the hot dish above referred to. "It was a trying sort of a night for us all, wasn't it?" she resumed as she returned. "And now Tom must needs go rushing off again on a fool's errand."

"Never mind Tom. A little blood-letting seems good for him rather than otherwise," said Eustace, with a dash of bitterness. "About yourself.

I don't believe you have closed your eyes this night through. If you won't take care of yourself, other people must do so for you. Presently I am going to sling the hammock under the trees and you shall have a right royal siesta."

His hand had prisoned hers as she stood over him arranging the plates and dishes. A faint colour came into her face, and she made a movement to withdraw it. The attempt, however, was a feeble one.

"I think we are a pair of very foolish people," she said, with a laugh whose sadness almost conveyed the idea of a sob.

"Perhaps so," he rejoined, pressing the hand he held to his cheek a moment, ere releasing it. "What would life be worth without its foolishness?"

For a few moments neither spoke. Eanswyth was busying herself arranging some of the things in the room, adjusting an ornament here, dusting one there. Eustace ate his breakfast in silence, tried to, rather, for it seemed to him at times as if he could not eat at all. The attempt seemed to choke him. His thoughts, his feelings, were in a whirl. Here were they two alone together, with the whole day before them, and yet there seemed to have arisen something in the nature of a barrier between them.

A barrier, however, which it would not be difficult to overthrow, his unerring judgment told him; yet he fought hard with himself not to lose his self-control. He noted the refined grace of every movement as she busied herself about the room--the thoroughbred poise of the stately head, the sheen of light upon the rich hair. All this ought to belong to him--did belong to him. Yet he fought hard with himself, for he read in that brave, beautiful face an appeal, mute but eloquent--an appeal to him to spare her.

A rap at the door startled him--startled them both. What if it was some neighbour who had ridden over to pay them a visit, thought Eustace with dismay--some confounded bore who would be likely to remain the best part of the day? But it was only old Josane, the cattle-herd. His master had told him to look in presently and ask for some tobacco, which he had been promised.

"I'll go round to the storeroom and get it for him," said Eanswyth.

"You go on with your breakfast, Eustace."

"No, I'll go. I've done anyhow. Besides, I want to speak to him."