“That’s enough for one sitting,” said Claverton, with a sneer of profound contempt for the other’s egotism and cowardice. It was all “I—I,” “Let me go.” A brutal laugh was the only answer which the savages vouchsafed.
“Ha!” they mocked. “A man of peace! What are men of peace doing here in war-time? This is not the land for a man of peace!”
Nevertheless, Claverton did his best to obtain the other’s release, and disinterestedly, too, for he knew that long before his own position could be made known he himself would be a dead man. He represented to the Kafirs—very contemptuously, it must be admitted—that the missionary was a pitiful devil, not worth the trouble of killing; that they could gain no good by it; but might by releasing him, as he would be only too ready to trumpet their generosity far and wide. They only shook their heads in response to all his arguments. They had no voice in the matter; it was a question for the chief to decide.
“What do they say?” anxiously inquired Swaysland.
“They can do nothing. It all depends upon Sandili. He will be back this evening, and then our fate will be settled.”
The other shuddered.
“You seem to take things very calmly, Mr Claverton,” said he, at length.
“Well, yes. What on earth’s the good of kicking up a row? It won’t mend matters.”
“Oh! God help us!” wailed the missionary, in mortal fear.
“That’s about our only chance. But you don’t seem to calculate over much on the contingency,” rejoined his companion, with a very visible sneer.