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 nobody 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 scraping 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 damned 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 noble 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 assent.

“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 horsemen poured forth in pursuit they soon overtook these, who lay down, already dead. The horsemen 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 assurance 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 bloody 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 muffled 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.

“Now I think we can steer our way,” whispered Thornhill. “Our nearest is by old Zisiso’s kraal, but that’s a regular path, and we don’t want that. We’ll keep a bit up, and we shall have the double advantage of avoiding the enemy every Kafir is an enemy now and being able to get an occasional outlook over the country. If we don’t fetch Kwabulazi by sunrise we shall have to lie low all through to-morrow.”

Steadily they held on. Thornhill was a master of veldt-craft, and Elvesdon did not come very far behind him in that line for all that he was professionally an official. The night air blew keen and chill, very chill, but the walking exercise largely counteracted that. And the sense of freedom again was exhilarating in itself still more so was the sense of the impending reunion.

They did not talk as they travelled when they had occasion to do so it was in the barest whispers. In ordinary and peaceful times they would not have encountered a living soul, for the native is strongly averse to moving about at night. Now, however, it was different. They might run into an impi at any moment, travelling swiftly across country to take up its position for attack or observation.

The night was dark, but, fortunately there was no mist. The stars to a certain degree piloted their direction, as they do, or should do, to every dweller in the free, sparsely inhabited open. Only this was not so sparsely inhabited, in that twice they came upon a large kraal where the inhabitants were alert and on the move, a thing they would never have been at that time of night, in peaceful times.

Now as they got almost within the glow of the red fires of one of these there was a rush and an open-mouthed clamour of curs, and that in their direction. The inhabitants, too, seemed to pause, and gaze suspiciously upwards fortunately they were above them, on the apex of a ridge.

“Gahle, Gahle! Elvesdon!” whispered Thornhill. “They’ve spotted us. This way. Don’t rattle more stones than you can help.”

They plunged down the other side of the rise. Ah but, they were many wearisome miles from safety and they were unmounted.

Along the hillside they made their way, but how slow did that way seem to men unaccustomed to doing that sort of travelling on foot. The dawn began to show signs of breaking, and they were still a long way from Kwabulazi. A weary day of close hiding and starvation lay before them.

It was light enough now to distinguish the surroundings. Suddenly Thornhill stopped and was listening intently.

“All up,” he said. “Look.”

The other followed the direction of his gaze. The tops of the bushes were shaking in a long quivering line. Clearly their enemies had been tracking them like hounds, throughout the dark hours.

“We can make a stand here as well as anywhere,” growled Thornhill. “We hold five lives apiece, and the last bullet for ourselves if we get time. Oh-h!”

A burning, blinding flash came before his eyes. Everything whirled round him, and he sank to the earth. Elvesdon set his teeth, with something like the snarl of a wild beast as his revolver bullet thudded hard into the naked form of the savage who had just hurled the deadly assegai, at the same time dropping another who was in the act of following it up by a second cast. For the moment none seemed anxious to take the risk of that quick, deadly aim.

Elvesdon glanced down at his unconscious friend, from whose head the blood was pouring. The assegai had struck him on the temple, and the blade, glancing along the skull had laid it bare in a frightful gash, with the effect of momentary stunning. The position was a low bush, the ground being open for more than a score of yards from it on the side of the attack, but this none of the assailants seemed eager to take the risk of crossing. He crouched down low so as to offer as small a mark as possible, and cool with the deadly calmness of desperation watched his chance.

It came. A movement among the bushes told that their enemies were making a surrounding move. For less than a second one of them showed, and again the pistol spoke, but whether with effect or not he was unable to determine. And then, if there was room for any addition to the utter despair which was upon him, Elvesdon’s quick, searching glance became alive to something else. On the roll of the slope, approaching from the direction they had been taking, the bushes were agitating in the morning stillness, and there was no breeze. His assailants were being reinforced, and as though to prove that fact beyond a doubt, there was a report of firearms, then another, and something hummed unpleasantly near. They had got rifles then? Well they could not go on missing him all day.

“Lie flat, Mister, and give us a chance of letting ’em have hell.”

The loud, hearty English hail was as a voice from Heaven. With characteristic promptitude Elvesdon obeyed, and then came a dropping volley, as the rescuers advanced in a line through the bushes, getting in their fire whenever an enemy showed himself. They were on foot, having left their horses just beyond the rise, with the object of making a silent advance and thus surprising the savages the more effectively.

The latter did not wait. They were in sufficient strength to tackle two men, but not such an opponent as the relieving force, of whose very number they were ignorant. So they wriggled away as swiftly and noiselessly as so many snakes, not, however, entirely without loss.

“Hallo. Who’s down?” cried Hyland Thornhill, coming up to the group standing around the two. “Eh? Who the blazes is down?”

They made way for him in silence.

“Oh, good God!” he cried, staggering to the ground beside the wounded man. “He isn’t killed no damn it he isn’t killed,” gritting his teeth. “Oh, dear old dad tell me you know me, for God’s sake.”

A wave of returning consciousness swept over the face of the wounded man. He opened his eyes, and there was a gleam of recognition in them. Then he closed them, knitting his brows as though in pain.

Thus Hyland Thornhill succeeded in rescuing his father but was it too late?