Nahoon halted. “Surely you would not enter there,” he exclaimed.
“Surely I will,” replied Hadden, “but there is no need for you to do so if you are afraid.”
“I am afraid—of ghosts,” said the Zulu, “but I will come.”
So they crossed the strip of turf, and entered the haunted wood. It was a gloomy place indeed; the great wide-topped trees grew thick there shutting out the sight of the sky; moreover, the air in it which no breeze stirred, was heavy with the exhalations of rotting foliage. There seemed to be no life here and no sound—only now and again a loathsome spotted snake would uncoil itself and glide away, and now and again a heavy rotten bough fell with a crash.
Hadden was too intent upon the buffalo, however, to be much impressed by his surroundings. He only remarked that the light would be bad for shooting, and went on.
They must have penetrated a mile or more into the forest when the sudden increase of blood upon the spoor told them that the bull’s wound was proving fatal to him.
“Run now,” said Hadden cheerfully.
“Nay, hamba gachle—go softly—” answered Nahoon, “the devil is dying, but he will try to play us another trick before he dies.” And he went on peering ahead of him cautiously.
“It is all right here, anyway,” said Hadden, pointing to the spoor that ran straight forward printed deep in the marshy ground.
Nahoon did not answer, but stared steadily at the trunks of two trees a few paces in front of them and to their right. “Look,” he whispered.