“Nothing very alarming,” returned Spence. “You must have heard it before. Only a troop of baboons kicking up a row in the kopjes.”
“Of course; but somehow it sounded so loud and so near.”
It was destined to do so still more. For even as she spoke there arose a most indescribable tumult—shrieks and yells and chattering, and over all that harsh, resounding bark: and it came from the granite kopje nearest the house—where Spence had found the troop of guinea-fowl that afternoon.
“What a row they’re making!” he went on. “Hallo! By Jove! D’you hear that?”
For over and above the simian clamour, another sound was discernible—a sound of unmistakable import. No one need go to Mashunaland to hear it, nor anything like as far. A stroll across Regent’s Park towards feeding time at the Zoo will do just as well. It was the deep, throaty, ravening roar of hungry lions.
“Phew! that accounts for all the shindy!” said Justin. “Now do you want me to go, Hermia? There isn’t much show for one against a lion in the dark, and, judging from the racket, there must be several. Well, shall I start?”
She had drawn closer to him instinctively; not that there was any danger, for the stockade was high and strong—in fact, had been erected with an eye to such emergency. Now they were strained together in a close embrace, this time she returning his kisses with more than his own passion.
“You are mine—mine at last, my heart, my life!” he whispered. And the answer came back, merely breathed—
“Yes, I am. All yours.”
And above, the myriad eyes of the starry heavens looked down; and without, the horrible throaty growl of the ravening beasts rent the night.