She saw that which might have turned many a stronger brain than hers—she saw that which made her cover her eyes with her hands, and stagger back against the doorpost with a low wailing cry of such unutterable horror as can rarely have proceeded from human throat. Oh Heaven! must she look again and go mad? was the thought which flashed through her mind as with hands pressed to her eyes she leaned against the doorpost as rigid as though turned to stone.
On the couch beneath the window aforesaid lay the form of Hollingworth—the form, for little else about the wretched man was distinguishable but his clothing. His skull had been battered in, and his features smashed to a pulp. There he lay, and on the floor beside him a periodical which he had been reading before overtaken by the sleep from which he was destined never to awaken. In one corner lay the corpse of his wife—and, in a row, four children, all with their skulls smashed, and nailed to the ground with assegais—the whole having undergone more or less nameless horrors of mutilation. This is what she saw—this girl—who had never looked upon a scene of violence or of bloodshed in her life. This is what she saw, returning in serene security to the peaceful home that sheltered her. No wonder she stood against the doorpost, her hands pressed tightly to her eyes, her brain on fire. Was it a dream—an awful nightmare? The very magnitude of the horror saved her.
Out into the air again. Not another glance dare she venture into that scene of hideous butchery. Out into the air again. The same golden sun was shining, the same fair earth, the same feathery foliage peaceful in the afternoon light. But within? The world began to go round with her. She staggered as though to sink into a swoon, when—
What was that? A cry? A moan? From the back of the house it seemed to come, and it was distinctly that of a human being in pain. Thither Nidia flew. The sound had created a diversion, and had certainly saved her brain from giving way from shock and fright.
A form was lying on the ground covered with blood and dust. Nidia recognised it in a moment for that of Hollingworth’s eldest boy—the youthful hunter whose prowess she had been about to congratulate.
“Jimmie!” she cried, bending over him. “Jimmie, my poor child, what has happened? What have they done to you—to—to everybody?”
Her voice broke down, and she could only sob piteously. She tried to raise the boy’s head, but he screamed.
“Oh, don’t—don’t! Oh, it hurts!”
To her horror, Nidia saw something of the extent of the terrible injuries the poor little fellow had received. Besides a huge bump on the side of the head he was covered with assegai-stabs. Yet he was still alive. Amid his moans, he looked up suddenly.