Note 1. A term of honour accorded to male members of the Royal House.
Chapter Sixteen.
The Refugee.
“Yes, I’m afraid there’s thunder in the air,” said Joe Fleetwood, lazily sharpening a well-worn sheath-knife upon the iron rim of a waggon wheel. “All these runners passing to and fro—bristling with assegais, too, and in too much almighty hurry to stop and talk—seem to point that way.”
“How’ll that affect our scheme?” said Wyvern lazily; he was lying on his back on the ground, his head on his hands and a pipe between his teeth, looking the picture of ease and content. A little way off the waggon boys—all Natal natives—were washing and scrubbing the enamelled metal plates on which their masters had not long ago been lunching, chatting among themselves in subdued tones; and, squatting apart, and throwing at them an occasional remark, was a head-ringed Zulu. Away in front stretched an amphitheatre of mountains, whose wall-like cliffs gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“It may affect us this way,” went on Fleetwood, “that if the rival parties come to blows we may be expected to take sides or be chawed up between the two.”
“The deuce! Well, we didn’t reckon on a second edition of ’79, as part of our plans, did we? It won’t forward what we came up for, either.”
“No, it won’t. Another bad sign is we’ve done next to no trade. When once it became patent we weren’t gun-runners, they’ve kept at a respectful distance.”