“May I ask,” he said, “if you devote life to befriending people in similar circumstances?”
The other laughed—the dry, mirthless laugh which was the only form of merriment in which he ever seemed to indulge.
“No, indeed. Once only, under similar circumstances. That was during the trouble in Matabeleland.”
“By Jove!”
Then fell an interval of silence, which neither seemed in a hurry to break. The sun mounted higher and higher, and grew hot. At length the mysterious stranger drew a parcel from his inner pocket. It was of no size, but carefully done up in waterproof wrappings.
“You have given me your word,” he said, “and you have kept it—I mean as to having met me at all. You can account for your escape, as may occur to you, but no word, no hint about me. Another condition I must impose upon you, and that is that you take no further part in the fighting here, but proceed straight to England, and deliver the contents of this packet in the quarter whither they are addressed. But the packet is not to be opened until you are on English soil. Do you agree?”
“Most certainly. Why, I owe you everything, even life.”
“Even life, as you say. And not even to the girl you love must you divulge the knowledge of my existence—the secrets between man and man are just as inviolable as those between man and woman. Well, you will be taken under safe guidance—absolutely safe, have no fear—to Ezulwini, but you will have to travel by byways, and therefore slowly. You see, I have watched every step you have taken ever since you came into the country, because I had marked you down as the one man who could carry out my purpose, and you will do it. Now, if you are rested, you can take this horse, and Mandevu will guide you to where you will find an efficient escort.”
“But—I can’t talk very well. And then, if we are attacked by a white force, what then? I only ask so as to know what to do.”
“Neither matters, and you will not be attacked. Are you ready?”