That settled Lamont. If the priest was right among the hostile natives already, why then he would be just as safe here as there, if not safer. It seemed too from Zwabeka’s words that he possessed some knowledge of medicine.
The chief now saw he had gained his point. Calling up two of the men who were on guard, he ordered them to listen carefully to Lamont’s words and remember them, and to aid them in this Lamont managed to find an old scrap of tattered envelope, and scratch two or three words on it. “You are a true friend, Zwabeka,” he said, when they were alone together again. “Au! we have been friends, but men forget friendship when there is war. But—not you.”
“That is so, Lamonti, and it may be that we shall sit down side by side once more. Yet for the present, be not slow to get well, for, as you did now say, I am not chief over the whole nation, and others may come in here at any moment. Then the way out will be hard. Now, rest.”
Rest! After the chief’s departure it seemed to Lamont that restfulness had fled from him for ever. He was aroused indeed. It was evident that Zwabeka meant to contrive his escape. Happiness again—which spelt Clare. During his long, weary march into this captivity the thought of her had simply maddened him, until the fever had reached its more prostrating stage; deadening, perhaps mercifully, the more acute mental throes. He was being led to his death, he had told himself, and she in the years to come would forget him, and find happiness with somebody else. Not even in the next world would they belong to each other. And then the effect of the fever had rendered him careless whether he lived or died.
Chapter Thirty.
Out of the Whirl.
“Ujojo!”
“Nkose?”