“My life is yet my own, Inqoto, which is well for some.”
Thornhill understood the allusion and—hoped still more. He made the usual murmur of assent.
“Listen Abelungu,” went on the Zulu, “and I will tell a story. There were two children—brothers. They fought in the ranks of the ibuto called Ngobamakosi what time the impi of the Great Great One was defeated kwa Nodvengu. (Historically known as the battle of Ulundi.) Both were wounded in the battle, and could not flee far, so when the white horsemen poured forth in pursuit they soon overtook these, who lay down, already dead. The horsemen thundered down upon them, and seeing that they still moved—for who at such a time sees anything but red?—pointed their pistols. But another white man rode there too and he pointed his pistol too—not at those who lay there but at those who threatened them. They were angry, and words rose high, but they rode on and left those two children, of whom one is alive to-day.”
The speaker paused, and began deliberately to take snuff. Elvesdon was interested; Thornhill was more, as he bent his glance keenly upon the dark face before him.
“Time—a long time—rolled on, and one of those ‘children,’ then a young man no longer, but ringed, sought out the white man who had saved him and his brother from death. He found him and—au! he himself became lame for life. For he fell—but he arose again. Then twice after that he escaped death.”
Thornhill’s face became rigid. He had entertained an angel unawares and had, all unconsciously, done his best to transform him into a devil. Elvesdon, too, began to see through the veil—though not entirely. He recalled the incident in the kloof when his friend had fired straight at this man, and but for his timely interruption and that of Edala would certainly have shot him dead. The Zulu for his part knew exactly how much to render clear to both and how much to keep dark from one.
“And now Inqoto,” he went on. “Thy daughter? What of her?”
“She is safe.” There was a rigid eagerness in the tone that by no means conveyed the assurance intended to be conveyed.
“She is safe,” was the answer, and Thornhill sank back with a sigh of relief. “Hers was one life saved by those of the two children kwa Nodwengu. She, and another, had taken hiding on the tree which grows out from Sipazi-pazi. Two eyes saw them, many others who sought for them on the mountain top—ah ah—on the mountain top—did not. She is safe at Kwabulazi—both are safe.”
A great sigh of relief went up from both listeners. They could fill in all the details. But Thornhill, to his companion’s amazement went through a strange performance. He leaped to his feet, and the next moment was swinging the narrator to and fro as he sat, with a vice-like hand upon each shoulder.