The Witch's Head

by H. Rider Haggard

The old man did as he was bid somewhat sulkily, Dorothy thought; but when he arrived at the dinner-table there was nothing noticeable about his manner.

They dined at a quarter to seven, and dinner did not take them very long. When it was over, old Atterleigh drank some wine, and then, according to his habit, went and sat in the ancient ingle-nook which had presumably been built by the forgotten Dum for his comfort on winter evenings. And on winter evenings, when there was a jolly wood-fire burning on the hearth, it was a pleasant spot enough; but to sit there in the dark on a lovely summer night was an act, well—worthy of old Atterleigh.

After dinner the conversation turned upon that fatal day when Alston’s Horse was wiped out at Isandhlwana. It was a painful subject both to Ernest and Jeremy, but the former was gratifying his uncle’s curiosity by explaining to him how that last dread struggle with the six Zulus came to determine itself in their favour.

“And how was it,” asked Mr. Cardus, “that you managed to get the better of the fellow you rolled down the hill with?”

“Because the assegai broke, and, fortunately enough, the blade was left in my hand. Where is it, Doll?” (for Jeremy had brought it home with him.)

Dorothy got up and reached the broken assegai, which had about eight inches of the shaft, from its place over the mantelpiece.

“Now then, Jeremy, if you would be so good as to sprawl upon your back on the floor, I will just show my uncle what happened.”

Jeremy complied, not without grumbling about dirtying his dress-coat.

“Now, Jeremy, my boy, where are you? O, there! Well, excuse my taking the liberty of kneeling on your chest, and holloa out if the assegai goes into you. If we are going to have a performance at all, it may as well be a realistic one. Now, uncle, you see when we finished rolling, which was just as this assegai snapped in two, as luck would have it I was uppermost, and managed to get my knee on my friend’s left arm and to hold his right with my left. Then, before he could get loose, I drove this bit of spear through the side of his throat, just there, so that it cut the jugular vein, and he died shortly afterwards; and now you know all about it.”

Here Ernest rose and laid the spear upon the table, and Jeremy, entering into the spirit of the thing, began to die as artistically as a regard for his dress-coat would allow. Just then Dorothy, looking up, saw her grandfather Atterleigh’s distorted face peering round the wall of the ingle-nook, where he was sitting in the dark, and looking at the scene of mimic slaughter with that same curious gaze that he had worn on several occasions lately. He withdrew his head at once.