Hard by the place where Suru, the first slave, had been killed was an open space, thickly studded with rocks embedded in the earth, and one side of this open was overhung with mimosas of a good height and strength. Clambering up one of these, I lay out upon the spreading branches. Jambúla remained below.
The night watch wore on—even the night side of life seemed hushed in this abode of wizardry and fear. Suddenly all the blood within me tingled and burned. Something was moving. And then above the ghostly wreathings of the white mist I could see the gigantic head—the huge horns curving upwards—of the ghost-beast.
Only the head was visible as, tilted upwards, nose in air, it moved above the sea of vapour, to and fro, as though seeking for something or somebody—for a fresh victim, perhaps—and I thought it might indeed soon find one. And as I looked the mist suddenly rolled away, revealing the dark form of Jambúla, standing upright against a small rock.
For the moment the beast did not see him. It continued to run hither and thither in the moonlight, and as I marked its gigantic proportions, my heart sank, for I knew that to kill such a thing as this single-handed was very nearly the hardest task ever entrusted to me.
It was huge in the dim light—black as night, and as large as an elephant almost. There was that in the very size of the thing no less than in the glaring ferocity of its eyes—which was enough to turn a man’s heart to water—for it could not be a thing of this earth. How, then, could it be slain?
Now it began to mutter, like the growlings of a heavy thunderstorm, as it ran to and fro, shaking its horrible head, and its dark, shaggy frontlet of hair. Whau! That was a fearful sight as the thing drew nearer. What of Jambúla! He had not moved, beyond half turning his head to get a better view of the horror. Would his heart fail him? I almost expected it would.
Ha! It had seen him. It dropped into a sort of stealthy crouch, more like that of a leopard or a lion than the movement of any horned animal; and thus it came up swiftly behind him.
But Jambúla was not asleep—oh no! There was no lack of wakefulness in him. In a moment he whirled behind a rock, as the ghost-bull, uttering a roar that shook the world, came at him with the swiftness of a lightning flash.
Then began a scene indeed. Jambúla, watching his opportunity, flitted from rock to rock, but not less swiftly did the monster come after him—seeming to fly through the air as it leaped over some of the lower rocks which were in its way. Hau! Could this last? Would not Jambúla, out of breath, falter for one instant? Would not his foot stumble in the tortuous rapidity of his flight? Au! Did that happen he were lost—we both were lost.
Hither and thither he sped, the horrible beast ever behind him, roaring in a fashion to turn a man’s heart to water—the foam flying from its mouth, the points of its huge horns tossing wildly, its savage eyes seeming indeed to flash flame. Would they never come beneath the tree where I—the great assegai gripped and ready—lay out along the bough waiting my chance?