The hideous sport of these barbarians must even be deferred till morning, for not another stick or straw will be induced by any power on earth to light as the deluging rain still beats down upon the earth in unabated fury—nor can the people stand out in such weather to witness it, and this is of the very essence of the performance.
So there in the dark, stuffy Kafir hut, securely bound, jealously watched, and the last hope of deliverance fled, lies Arthur Claverton; beyond all reach of his friends; cast off by her of whose love he was more certain than of his own life; his hated rival triumphant and secure from his just vengeance; and he only awaiting the morrow to be dragged forth, in the prime of life, to suffer a slow and lingering death among unheard-of tortures in order to make sport for a crowd of brutal savages. Truly his lot is a hopeless one indeed.
Note 1. An institution similar to the good old custom of “witch finding,” among ourselves.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.
“A Life for a Life.”
When a man knows that the first light of dawn will see him led forth to a lingering death by torture, he is not likely to pass a very tranquil night, be he never so courageous or philosophical. Claverton exemplified both of these attributes to the full; yet as he lay there, thinking upon his position, even his fearless spirit sank within him.
To begin with, there was not the shadow of a chance of escape. He was firmly secured with strong and well-tried reims—a detail to which his captors, warned by the Mopela episode, had given their extra attention—and two stalwart Kafirs, fully armed, mounted guard over him by relays, one lying across the door of the hut. Not a muscle could he move, not ever so slightly could he shift his wearisome position, but their eyes were upon him, as they sat chatting in their deep bass tones; but carefully avoiding any subject likely to interest their charge.