“Umhleswa is a chief,” he said, slowly moving to the entrance of the hut, and looking back on the astonished prisoners as he stood in the bright sunshine. “He has not lied to his white brother.” He waved his arm and disappeared.
The Auto Da Fé.
With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had come among them to take the sorcerer’s place in the tribe that the cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo’s co-operation. Masheesh now entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the palmyra rope which yet bound the white men’s hands as he did so.
Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, looking into each other’s eyes, the soldier speaking first.
“The black scoundrel,” at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking himself like a dog. “Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak to Masheesh—will you?”
Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time, then looking up into the speaker’s face.
“The Amatonga must have blood,” he said, slowly. “Shall it be the white man’s? Masheesh can do nothing.”
“Will the chief try?” asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the hopelessness of the case.
“But if you will not, at all events we will,” said the missionary. “It is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point.”