“Kill him—kill him,” began to be cried. “He is Only a common policeman. He is of no use.”
“But he is of use,” shouted Elvesdon, who began now to see his way, hearing this. “No common man is he. He is only playing at police.”
This was effective. Three hostages were better than two. Parry’s life was saved—for the present, but he was ordered to dismount, and by the advice of his superior he complied. His revolver was taken from him—Thornhill and Elvesdon had been similarly disarmed—and he was immediately hemmed in by a ring of blades.
“Now tell your women to go,” said the man who appeared to be exercising chief authority. “I will send men with them to see them safe to their home.”
“May I not bid my daughter farewell?” said Thornhill, with something of a tremor in his voice, and instinctively taking a step forward. Instantly a line of blades barred his way.
“Be content, be content,” answered the chief. “You are still alive, and your women are safe. Now walk.”
“To Tongwana?”
No reply was made to this, but there was no help for it. Hemmed closely in by the huge armed force, they were marched along over the very ground which they had traversed so light-heartedly barely an hour before. No indignity was offered them, but they knew that escape was as impossible as though they had been bound with thongs—at any rate just then.
They had this consolation however. The chief had kept his word. Looking backward just before they plunged over the ridge they could make out the mounted figures of the two girls away over the plain, the armed escort, keeping pace, distributed on either side—and they were making for home, not for Kwabulazi.