The Zulu boy lay on the sward beneath the great dog—his one object being to shield his throat. Fortunately he had previously rolled his jacket round his left arm, and this had received the powerful jaws, which hung on, with a dreadful worrying snarl—while, with his right, he was stabbing furiously at the creature’s body, but somehow without much effect. Haviland saw his chance—and the good moonlight befriended him. With the utmost coolness and ready promptitude he selected his opportunity—letting out with all the force of his iron-bound right hand. “Woof!” It caught the snarling, gnashing monster full and square on the side of the head, and without waiting to see the result he followed it up with another. One quick gasp, and the great brute rolled off, lying on its side, hardly moving—stunned, if not dead. But the Zulu boy would leave nothing to chance. Springing to his feet he drove his sharp weapon through and through the body of the dog. There was no doubt about it then. The animal lay still—the dark pool of its blood widening ever in the moonlight.
“Are you hurt, Cetchy? D’you hear—are you hurt?” gasped Haviland, panting with the effort and excitement of his supreme exertion.
“Hurt? No. He bite me once. Ha! I, Mpukuza! I can kill! Ha!”
Thus spoke the savage—the descendant of a line of fighting savages, standing there, grasping his savage weapon, surveying the dead and bleeding body of his formidable enemy, not in his own native wilds, but in the peaceful glade of an English game preserve.
“Well, come along then, and quick. There’s sure to be a keeper not far off.”
Quickly they took their way to the edge of the wood. They were over the fence and away, but hardly had they gone some fifty yards when a voice behind them shouted:—
“Hi! Stop there! Stop, do ’ee ’ear? I’ll shoot ’ee if ’ee don’t.” And immediately the bang of a discharged gun crashed out upon the night, Haviland laughed.
“It’s all right, Cetchy. He daren’t fire at us, for his life. It’s bluff. Come along.”
And away they raced, but a glance over their shoulder showed them that the keeper was giving chase.
That in itself didn’t afflict them much, but by and by when they had covered several long fields, they observed with concern that he was still on their heels. As a rule, a keeper was easy to distance, but this one seemed lightly built and in excellent training. Even a dark lane down which they dived, hoping to double on him, proved of no avail; rather did it serve to make matters worse, for the keeper, knowing where they were bound to come out, had wasted neither time nor energy, but made straight for that point: a manoeuvre which brought him alarmingly close when he did emerge. And at all hazards he must not be suffered to head them off from their objective.