“Thou Masai dog, thou boasting windbag, thou capturer of little girls, with this ‘toy’ will I hew thee limb from limb. Well for thee that thou art a herald, or even now would I strew thy members about the grass.”
The Masai shook his great spear and laughed loud and long as he answered, “I would that thou stoodst against me man to man, and we would see,” and again he turned to go still laughing.
“Thou shalt stand against me man to man, be not afraid,” replied Umslopogaas, still in the same ominous voice. “Thou shalt stand face to face with Umslopogaas, of the blood of Chaka, of the people of the Amazulu, a captain in the regiment of the Nkomabakosi, as many have done before, and bow thyself to Inkosi-kaas, as many have done before. Ay, laugh on, laugh on! tomorrow night shall the jackals laugh as they crunch thy ribs.”
When the Lygonani had gone, one of us thought of opening the basket he had brought as a proof that Flossie was really their prisoner. On lifting the lid it was found to contain a most lovely specimen of both bulb and flower of the Goya lily, which I have already described, in full bloom and quite uninjured, and what was more a note in Flossie’s childish hand written in pencil upon a greasy piece of paper that had been used to wrap up some food in:—
“DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER,” ran the note, “The Masai caught us when we were coming home with the lily. I tried to escape but could not. They killed Tom: the other man ran away. They have not hurt nurse and me, but say that they mean to exchange us against one of Mr Quatermain’s party. I will have nothing of the sort. Do not let anybody give his life for me. Try and attack them at night; they are going to feast on three bullocks they have stolen and killed. I have my pistol, and if no help comes by dawn I will shoot myself. They shall not kill me. If so, remember me always, dearest father and mother. I am very frightened, but I trust in God. I dare not write any more as they are beginning to notice. Goodbye.—FLOSSIE.”
Scrawled across the outside of this was “Love to Mr Quatermain. They are going to take the basket, so he will get the lily.”
When I read those words, written by that brave little girl in an hour of danger sufficiently near and horrible to have turned the brain of a strong man, I own I wept, and once more in my heart I vowed that she should not die while my life could be given to save her.
Then eagerly, quickly, almost fiercely, we fell to discussing the situation. Again I said that I would go, and again Mackenzie negatived it, and Curtis and Good, like the true men that they are, vowed that, if I did, they would go with me, and die back to back with me.
“It is,” I said at last, “absolutely necessary that an effort of some sort should be made before the morning.”
“Then let us attack them with what force we can muster, and take our chance,” said Sir Henry.