“There is the doctor, Nkose,” said Ujojo, with a sweep of the hand beneath.
Zwabeka’s runners had been swift. Crossing the stony hollow was a horseman, and in a minute or two further Lamont and Father Mathias were shaking hands cordially.
“Why we never expected to meet like this again, did we?” said the latter. “Now show me where you have hurt your leg—you have hurt it, I am told. You know, I have a medical diploma in my own country.”
“Then you have a double-barrelled sphere of usefulness, Father. But—how on earth did you get up among Madula’s people? Why, the whole country is in a blaze.”
“I was called to see a poor white man who was dying. He was a sort of a trader among them, and they were friendly with him, and protected him when the rising began. He sent for me, assuring me that I should be safeguarded until I was back in any township or post I should elect.”
“And you put your head into a hornet’s nest on that slender assurance?”
The other smiled.
“Why, yes; it is part of my commission. Would you shrink from going to the rescue of someone, Mr Lamont, because the odds were largely against you?”
It was Lamont’s turn to smile now, and that grimly, remembering the odds that had been against him in ‘going to the rescue of someone.’
“The poor man died, but I was just in time,” went on the priest. “Then I stayed on and doctored some of the people who were suffering from ordinary ailments, and indeed from wounds. As for danger, they would not have harmed me.”