“I can’t tell where he’s gone,” he said, “but he’s not there. We must seek him. If none of those bloodthirsty fiends you brought—”
“I brought, Jack!”
“Well, who brought you; if they haven’t hurt him, none of our tribe would I am sure, for they respect him too much.”
Anxiously we now searched among the slain for the young minister, whom it appeared even the Kaffirs had liked, and no one can tell with what relief we passed from heap to heap and found him not among the dead. We had proceeded some little way outside the kraal, our quest as yet in vain, when with a cry Jack hurried forward towards the figure of a man kneeling by the side of another either dying or dead.
We had found Mr Ferguson at last, and, like a true soldier of heaven as he was, at his post; for, on Thompson approaching, he arose, with, as I perceived, his well-remembered prayer-book in his hand.
“Ah, Jack,” he exclaimed joyfully; “thank heaven you are safe. I was about to seek you, when—”
“Never mind me, sir, please now,” interrupted Thompson excitedly, “for I’ve brought an old friend to see you—one you will rejoice as much to look upon as he rejoices to look upon you, sir.”
“A friend! Thompson—and here?”
“Yes, here sir, if you can reckernise in this noble Kaffir warrior, with his shield and assagais, our old mate in trouble—Dick Galbraith!”
“Dick Galbraith here! alive?” exclaimed Mr Ferguson. “Now, heaven be praised indeed, for this is good news. My heart is truly delighted—it has been much cast down at the thought of what might have been your fate.”