They went out into the air again. The sun shone placidly down from an unclouded sky upon this gloomy scene of desolation and death; around, a fair vision of hill and dale lay spread afar, and now and then the melodious call of the hoepoe would float upon the summer air as if no frightful tragedy had been enacted in that peaceful spot, where the torch and assegai of the savage had been glutted in his lust for blood.
“I suppose we must let this devil go, too,” said Lumley, with a fierce, vengeful glance at their hostage.
“Oh, yes,” said Claverton, decisively; “no question about that. Usivulele,” he went on, addressing the Kafir, “is this the work of your band? It’ll make no difference to you; I shall let you go all the same.”
The man gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“Chief,” he replied, “we are not the only party of warriors in the bush. The land is full of them. Some were here this morning, and are yonder to-night,” pointing to the horizon. “Why should it be our work?”
“A true native answer, but a fair one,” said Claverton. “No one’s bound to criminate himself. Hallo; here’s a book!”
For, agitated by the faint breeze, some leaves of paper might be seen stirring amid the grass a few yards off. He picked it up. It was not a book, but a few pages of one, in the German language—a hymn-book, from all appearances—and it must have been flung there by the savages when they had completed their ruthless work. The finding of it, however, and some other fragments of books all in the same language, scattered around, threw additional light upon the incident. Evidently the unhappy victims were German immigrants, of whom there were many in Kaffraria, and who either disbelieving the alarming reports, or trusting to the friendliness of the natives, had been loth to leave their prosperous, and, as they thought, peaceful home; and had suffered the penalty of their imprudence.
A grave having been dug the remains were carefully deposited within it, and, knocking together a rude cross out of some of the wood-work of the ruined dwelling, Claverton planted it over the last resting-place of the unfortunate immigrants slaughtered beneath their own roof-tree. Then comparing his watch with the sun he addressed the hostage:
“Usivulele, you have kept your side of the compact and I will keep mine. The time has come and you are at liberty to return to your chief. Go. You are free.”
The Kafir’s impassive countenance relaxed into a slight smile, and, with a murmur of assent and a courteous salute to Claverton, he gathered his blanket about him and strode away into the veldt. Many a scowl followed the retreating figure as the bystanders grasped their rifles and stole a furtive glance at their leader’s face. They longed to send a volley after the retiring Kafir; but each man knew that to do so would mean instant death to himself.