A sharp conversation ensued between the natives, all talking together, the chief, Matumba, evidently trying to keep them within bounds, while they as evidently wished to take the coveted rifles by force. Placing their backs against the rocks, their rifles ready, the two waited the result, but great was their relief when the whole party, after much talking, at last moved off in Indian file, and disappeared under the deepening forest shade.
“We are well out of that, Wyzinski,” remarked Hughes, as he seated himself at the foot of the rock, “and now, what are we to do next?”
“Break ground as soon and as speedily as possible. We have but to follow the stream, and we shall be within the walls of Senna in three hours.”
The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to a stand still.
“Let us halt here,” said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by the forest.
“We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger.”
A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.
“It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes,” said Wyzinski. “I misdoubt those Amatongas.”
“They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first turn, I’ll have a sleep,” replied Hughes.
“Agreed,” returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay, he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched the ground. “It would be a pity to wake him,” muttered the missionary. “I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not sleep even if I tried.”