They were all very jolly and merry, chatting and making plans for the day. Suddenly a tall figure appeared at the foot of the steps of the stoep. The sight of it brought a queer look, though a momentary one to Elvesdon’s face.
“Oh, you’ve still got that chap, Thornhill,” he said carelessly.
“Yes. I find him useful, and at times, rather interesting. I’ll just go out and see what he wants.”
What Manamandhla wanted was this. The Amakosi, he perceived, were about to have a hunt. Might not he come too, and help drive out the bush? He loved to see a hunt, and could make himself of use.
Thornhill’s thoughts on hearing this request were known to himself and his Maker—incidentally, they may have been more than guessed at by the Zulu—as he answered equably that the other could do so if he wished. He was thinking how easy it was to mistake a man for a buck in thick bush—and that a charge of Treble A at close quarters— And the laughter and joking of those within came loud through the open windows; for tragedy and mirth, are they not always more or less closely allied, and running on parallel rails?
“I say, Miss Thornhill, do let me carry your gun for you,” said Prior, eagerly, as he ranged his horse alongside. This was a new experience to him. He had never seen a girl taking part in a hunt before, though of course he had heard of this one doing so.
“Thanks, Mr Prior, but there’s no necessity. Would you like to hold it for me while I shoot? I am even capable of turning a door-handle for myself at a pinch.”
Elvesdon smiled, and Thornhill chuckled. Evelyn Carden did neither. She was fond of being waltzed around, and generally thurificated.
Poor Prior dropped back snubbed. Five was an awkward number and the track was narrow. He remembered too that he had come very near ‘riding out’ his chief. But the latter seemed not in any way perturbed.