“Baas,” came a warning shout, “pass op de leeuw!”
“That is Klaas—what does he cry? The leeuw—the lion—is it not? Ah, that is better. Give me the lantern again.”
She took the lantern, while Webster, with his rifle ready, kept by her shoulder, and they slowly advanced, following the shaft of light for the reflection of the lion’s eyes. Presently an ox moaned, there was a sound of horns clashing as the oxen bunched together, then the ground trembled to the roar of a lion, followed by the wild rush and crashing of branches. When they reached the waggon there was not an ox remaining. The Gaika, who loved his cattle, was raging about with a lighted brand in one hand and an assegai in the other, hurling insults at the lion.
“Mij ossa,” he said; “mij mooi swaart-bonte; oh! verdomde leeuw!”
“Where is the baas?” asked Webster, at his wits’ end.
“The baas is dead,” cried the Gaika; “mij ossa es dood, und ek is dood.”
Webster took the Kaffir by the arm and shook him. “Stop this noise and build up the fire.”
Klaas obeyed, piling dead brushwood on the coals till the flames mounted up, and shone on the white canvas and on the pale faces of Miss Anstrade and Webster, who stood looking out into the darkness for their missing friend. From far there sounded the wild bellow of an ox, followed presently by the complaining, wailing cry of a jackal and the devilish laugh of a hyaena.
“The lion eats,” muttered the Kaffir.
They longed for the light of day to reveal the dark mystery that hedged them in, and, above all, the meaning of that voice and its warning.