And the chief of the guard went over to where lay his former master.
“You did well to keep those Abantwana Mlimo off me last night. They might have pricked me with a poisoned blade, or have done anything.” The speaker little guessed he had hit the actual mark. “And now, Ujojo—why are you fighting?”
The man laughed, turning aside his head.
“Nkose, I have been taking care of your cattle for you,” he said. “I have them, all but three, and those the people took, wanting meat. Afterwards I will return them.”
“But—if you thought I was blown up with the house?”
“I could not think that, Nkose. Anyone else yes—but—well, the cattle are there.”
“You will not be the loser, Ujojo, no, nor Zwabeka. Now, when am I to be allowed to depart?”
“Nkose is sick.”
“No; I am well now.”
It seemed like it. Hope once more rekindled—powerfully rekindled—seemed to have infused the sufferer with new life. His bruised leg was still terribly stiff and painful, but the fever had almost left him. That is a peculiarity of this up-country malaria. A man may be shivering under eight blankets in the evening and the next morning be standing about in his shirt loading up his waggons or donkeys. Lamont, chatting thus with his guard on the morning after his visit from Zwabeka, felt almost as if he had never had anything the matter with him in his life.