“Come out and look, Lucy,” said Clare, who had been dividing her attention between watching what was going on and trying to reassure her terrified sister. “It’s a splendid sight, and we don’t get an opportunity of seeing a big Matabele regiment on the march every day, and in full war-paint too.”
“A splendid sight! Ugh, the horrible wretches! I never want to set eyes on them again.”
And the speaker shuddered, and stopped her ears as though to shut out the receding thunder of the marching song.
“But, Mrs Fullerton, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” urged the storekeeper’s wife. “They’re going right away.”
An idea struck Clare. Going outside, the first person she ran against was Lamont.
“Piers,” she said in a low tone, “where are they going?”
“I suspect they are making straight for Gandela.”
“Will they—take it?”
“No reason why they should, if only Orwell and Isard have condescended to act on my repeated warning, and put the place into a state of defence.”
“And if not—?”