“The man whom you seek,” was the grave reply. “He whom the people call Umlilwane.”
An ejaculation of horror again greeted the Kafir’s words. This awful travesty, this wreck of humanity, that this should be Tom Carhayes! It was scarcely credible. What a fate! Better had he met his death, even amid torture, at the time they had supposed, than be spared for such an end as this.
Then amid the deep silence and consternation of pity which this lugubrious and lamentable discovery evoked, there followed an intense, a burning desire for vengeance upon the perpetrators of this outrage; and this feeling found its first vent in words. Josane shook his head.
“It might be done,” he muttered. “It might be done. Are you prepared to spend several days in here, Amakosi?”
This was introducing a new feature into the affair—the fact being that each of the three white men was labouring under a consuming desire to find himself outside the horrible hole once more—again beneath the broad light of day. It was in very dubious tones, therefore, that Shelton solicited an explanation.
“Even a maniac must eat and drink,” answered Josane. “Those who keep Umlilwane here do not wish him to die—”
“You mean that some one comes here periodically to bring him food?”
“Ewa.”
“But it may not be the persons who put him here; only some one sent by them,” they objected.
“This place is not known to all the Gcaléka nation,” said Josane. “There are but two persons known to me who would dare to come within a distance of it. Those are Ngcenika, the witch-doctress, and Hlangani, who is half a witch-doctor himself.”