Just then, however, his luck seemed to turn. Some of his people who had been out, partly on a scout, partly maraud, brought him some news. In the result he went straight to the bedside—or rather blanket side—of his prisoner.
“Hearken, Lamonti,” he began, when the guard had got outside with alacrity and a respectful salute. “You are not yet tired of life?”
“Almost,” was the wan reply. “But why?”
“I can get you one of your own doctors. Will you send him word to come?”
Lamont stared, half raising himself. “But—it is war time, or—has peace been made?”
“Not so. But he shall come and go in safety.” The other thought for a moment. Then he said—“I dare not do it, Zwabeka. You are chief of many, but not of the whole nation. If the man should come to harm at the hands of others, would not I have lured him to his death? Who is he?”
“Au! He cannot come to harm—Qubani says so,” said the chief impatiently. “It is the doctor who came with you, and slept at my kraal.”
Lamont started. Father Mathias! But then he was not a doctor, not in the sense the chief had meant. Well, no matter. It would be good to see once more a friendly face, to press a friendly hand.
“Where is he?” he asked eagerly.
“Will you send for him?” returned the chief. “Au! he will be in no danger. He is a good doctor and has cured several of Madula’s people. He is there now.”