“The deuce take your ruins, Wyzinski!” said Hughes. “Do try to get us out of the scrape we are in. Humour the scoundrel.”
Umhleswa seemed uneasy at this by-play, not understanding one word of English.
“Will the white men keep their promise if Masheesh comes?”
“Certainly not. He will then be our deliverer, not you, and the rifles must be his.”
“Umhleswa saved you when the knives of his people were about to drink your blood?” sententiously remarked the savage.
Wyzinski shuddered. “Come, chief,” he replied, taking from his belt a revolver, “send us on our journey, and this shall be yours.” Raising his arm, he fired barrel after barrel into the air, pausing between each ere he drew the trigger to enhance the effect.
The savage’s eyes glistened, and he showed his filed teeth. He doubted not that Masheesh had been sent to bring down the Matabele warriors upon him, in which case he should lose the promised reward.
The thought swayed him; the sight of the revolver finished the matter.
Slowly rising, he walked away several paces, and the missionary’s heart beat quickly, for all seemed lost. Turning, he pointed to the sky. “When the moon rises yonder, and my people are buried in sleep, let the white men be ready. Umhleswa does not lie,” he said, moving away.
Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he again paused, hesitated, and once more returned.