“It may be that Lenzimbi will watch the sun arise from among the tents of his people.”
“Who speaks?” whispered Claverton, quickly.
“A friend. Tambusa.”
“Ah!”
For a moment he could not speak—could scarcely think. His nerves had been terribly strained within the last forty-eight hours; and now the rush of blood to his head, the sudden overpowering revulsion of hope, succeeding the black, outer gloom of despair, would have been dangerous to the very reason of one less philosophically endowed. Life—liberty—revenge, and after that—love! He dared not think of it. Yet it was within his grasp once more. These two were about to redeem their promise. They would save him yet.
He had not seen them before, for the simple reason that they had only arrived at the kraal after he had been thrown into the hut; and then by the merest chance. And now, like the bright warming sunshine let into a cold dungeon which had never known daylight, came that friendly whisper through the darkness.
“I am ready,” he replied. “Just slip off these bits of reimpje, Tambusa; and give me an assegai and a stick or something, and start me outside, and then if ever these devils get hold of me again, why, they’re welcome to.”
“Not yet, ’Nkos, not yet,” whispered the young Kafir. “Too soon, too soon; there are still some of them awake. Leave it to us.”
What a lifetime now was every moment to the prisoner! Each rain-drop seemed to fall with a crash like thunder; every sound was to his fevered impatience as the beat of footsteps coming to rend from him for ever this one last chance. The old man still sat by the door, occasionally growling out curses upon the dog of a white wizard, and wishing it was morning that they might begin their horrid work; but this the captive knew now to be only a blind. Hours—weeks—years—seemed to roll by in that terrible suspense; in reality it was scarcely more than half an hour.
At length some one touched him in the darkness, and this time it was Xuvani who spoke.