Ujojo and the other guards were no more impervious to the prevailing excitement. They were pointing eagerly, this way and that way, and taking in all the different points at which warriors were posted among the rocks to give the invaders a warm reception. That a large force of whites was advancing was manifest by the heaviness of the fire, which was now heard on the three open sides of the place.
A little more of this, and still nearer and nearer drew the three lines of fire, the nearest of all being that on their own side; and now, warriors, by twos and threes, rifle in hand, were seen flitting by, clearly in full retreat or to take up some new position. And, around these, spits of dust from the invaders’ bullets were already beginning to rise.
“Nkose! It is time for us to leave now,” called out Ujojo. “Your people will be here directly.”
“Good, Ujojo. After the war, all those who have guarded me shall have five cows apiece for to-day’s work. Now go!”
“Nkose! Baba!” they shouted with hand uplifted. Then they went.
“I’m thinking out our best plan, Father,” said Lamont. “If we show ourselves too soon we might get shot in mistake for Matabele. The only thing is to—”
“Give it the schepsels, give it ’em! Give ’em hell!” sung out a voice just beneath. And renewed firing broke forth, presumably on the rear of the retreating guards.
“That’s Peters,” pronounced Lamont. “Ahoy, there! Peters!” he bellowed.
Peters stood stock-still for a moment—stared—listened. “It’s him!” he roared. “It’s him! Wyndham. Here! we’ve found him! We came out to do it—and—we’ve done it. How are you, my dear old chap,” as the quondam prisoner and invalid emerged from his late prison and hospital, walking with surprising vigour. “Oh, but this is too good, too darn good for anything!”
“Let go, Peters. Dash it, man, you hurt,” cried Lamont, ruefully contemplating his half-crushed knuckles. “Or turn some of it on to Father Mathias here. His doctoring skill has pulled me round, I can tell you.”