“Not a bit,” was the reply; “but look at the poor grey.”
“He is past saving,” answered Hughes; and it was evident it was so, for so frightfully had the sharp horn done its work, that the entrails were hanging out, and the animal fast bleeding to death.
Placing his revolver to the pony’s head, the report rang out; a few convulsive movements, and the carcase of the horse lay still.
“Where is Masheesh?” enquired Hughes, as he returned the smoking weapon to his belt. “If it had not been for his nonsense, that pistol-shot would have been saved.”
Wyzinski had seated himself on the grass, for the whole thing had passed so quickly, that it was difficult to realise the danger.
Slowly stalking out of the bushes, Masheesh, as though nothing had happened, gravely walked to the foot of the tree, took up the ant-eater which, alarmed at the noise, had rolled itself up like a hedgehog, and brought it to where the missionary was seated.
“What on earth does he want with that hedgehog?” asked Hughes. The Matabele, speaking quickly, and in an excited voice, looked up at the missionary as he did so, pointing to the little animal.
“He says it is a great prize,” returned the other, “and consoles him for the loss of his spear. It appears that these ant-eaters are scarce, and the possession of one guarantees its owner against loss or sickness among his cattle.”
“The loss of his cattle! He nearly lost our lives for us, confound him,” replied Hughes, with some show of humour. “He don’t seem to think of that.”
“A native never does, it is not in their nature, and life is held very cheap. Look at yonder group moving over the plain in a line with that stunted acacia. The king Mozelkatse must be among them.”