And now a commotion arose on the other side of the kraal. All eyes were turned, and so grotesque was the sight that met his glance that Claverton could hardly keep from laughing outright. In the centre of a group of women and children, who were hustling him along, was a man—a white man. On his head was a tall black hat, the puggaree had been impounded by one of his captors. His arms were bound to his sides, while his long-tailed coat, now in a woeful and tattered condition, hung about his legs. Some brat, more mischievous than the rest, would every now and then swing on to its tails, or bestow a severe pinch underneath, while buffets of every description seemed the sufferer’s momentary portion. His eyes were starting out of his head with fear, and his countenance was more abject than ever. In this miserable-looking specimen of British humanity Claverton recognised his companion in adversity—the missionary, Swaysland.
“Yaow—man of peace—get on!” yelled the rabble, hustling the poor wretch forward. One urchin leaped upon his back, and nearly made his teeth meet in the tip of his ear, while another playfully flicked him on the cheek with the lash of a toy-whip. Altogether the unfortunate missionary seemed to be having a bad time of it.
“Is there too much light, Umfundisi?” mocked a young woman, as he blinked his eyes, partly to dodge an expected blow, partly because the sudden glare of the sun tried them. “There, now it is dark. Is that better?” and she banged the tall hat down over the luckless man’s eyes, head and face, thereby performing the operation known to the uncivilised Briton as “bonneting.” A scream of laughter from the barbarous mob greeted this performance, which increased as, with the “chimney-pot” sticking over his head and face, their victim stumbled forward, completely blinded. Scattering the women, two of the warriors roughly removed this visual obstruction, and marched him up to where Claverton was sitting.
“Hallo, Mr Swaysland, I never expected to see you again in this terrestrial orb!”
There was something almost cheerful in this greeting, and the poor missionary felt hopeful.
“How did you escape? I am so glad!” he began in a tone of breathless relief. “Now you will be able to interpret for me. I am sure they would not have ill-treated me if I could have made them understand who I am. And they have ill-treated me shockingly—shockingly.”
“Why! Can’t you talk their lingo?”
“No. I have only been in this country a few months. Ah, why did I leave Islington! I was President of the Young Men’s Christian Association there, and I must needs come to convert the heathen in this benighted country. I was afternoon preacher at—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted his companion in adversity. “But I’m afraid that won’t inspire John Kafir with either respect or compunction. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them that I am the Rev. Josiah Swaysland, and that I belong to the Mount Ararat Mission Station. Tell them that I am the Kafir’s friend, and that I gave up a comfortable place in a high-class drapery establi—er—ah—er—I mean in a—er—in easy circumstances at home, in order to come and be their friend. Tell them to let me go. I am not a fighting man. I am a man of peace, and never did them any harm. Tell them—”