The rain had ceased and the clouds were parting, and now, through the widening patch of blue firmament, the rising sun began to dart his warming beams upon the saturated earth, and all the joyous freshness of early morning was around. A few days earlier, and what exultation would have thrilled around this man’s heart, snatched as he had been from a horrible death, and restored to a world of light, and joy, and gladness; but now he had a task on hand which precluded any such thought—the accomplishment of his fell purpose of vengeance. After that—well, the future must take care of itself.
“Look!” exclaimed Xuvani, pointing to a column of smoke arising from a hollow about three miles off. “There are your people. Now go. You are safe.”
“Come with me, Xuvani,” urged Claverton, earnestly. “Not a soul shall harm you, I pledge you my life. I shall be better able to repay you, then—and—”
His words were cut short by an interruption as sudden as it was alarming. A volley of six or eight shots in rapid succession was poured into them, and several yellow faces simultaneously came into view, peering from behind the bushes to mark the effect. Fortunately the bullets whizzed harmlessly overhead and around, though perilously near.
“Cease firing, men,” thundered Claverton, throwing off his native disguise and standing erect and commanding. The well-known voice had a magic effect. With a shout of delight the astonished Hottentots, disregarding all dangers—past, present, and to come—leaped from their cover and crowded round their former leader; for it was into the midst of his old levy that Claverton had walked.
“Allamagtig, Kaptyn!” cried old Spielmann—his erewhile favourite sergeant. “Why, how did you manage to get away? We thought those devils of Kafirs must have roasted you,” and the old fellow’s wrinkled parchment face was puckered up like that of a monkey, as he grinned from ear to ear in his delight, and the others were none the less loud in their expressions of gratulation. Meanwhile, Claverton looked around for Xuvani, but he looked in vain. The Kafir had disappeared.
“Where’s the other nigger?” cried a loud, harsh voice behind them. “What the devil were you fellows about to let him escape? After him—directly. Bruintjes—Spielmann! Damn it—don’t stand staring at me! Do as I tell you—d’you hear?”
Claverton turned—and stood face to face with Ralph Truscott.
“At last!” he said, with a cool, sneering smile. “At last. Twice we have met before. The third time’s lucky.”
The other started and changed colour visibly.