“Who is Kulondeka?” said the prisoner, wonderingly.
“Answer questions, do not ask them,” interposed Sikonile, furiously, giving the prisoner a couple of vicious digs in the thigh with his assegai.
“I found this horse down there,” said the latter sullenly, “and it was standing alone, so I took it. If it is a chief’s horse—au! here it is. I thought it was a white man’s.”
“Where were you going?” queried Mafutana.
But before any answer could be made, an interruption occurred. One of the bystanders, who had been bending down closely scrutinising the prisoner’s face in the starlight, shot upward with a quick ejaculation.
“Whau!” he cried, bringing his hand to his mouth. “See, brothers. Here is Pato, son of Teliso, of the Abatembu, under the chief, Umfanta. Should it not rather be Mantisa, son of no Fengu dog in particular, a spy of the Amapolise, under Bokelo? Do I not know him! Hau! He it was who got me a long time in prison, for stealing a sheep which I never stole. Ha! Welcome to thee, Mantisa. For thee we have a warm bed, ah-ah—a bed of fire!”
The unfortunate detective, seeing himself unmasked, realised that the only hope of escape for him was a swift death instead of a long and lingering one by fiery torment. So, instead of answering, he only spat contemptuously. A score of assegais were raised. But Sikonile flung himself in the way.
“See you these?” he said. “Where is Kulondeka?”
“That I know not,” came the sullen reply.
“Ha! The fire! The fire will make him speak!” cried several. “To the fire then! To the Place of the Bones!”