A curious scene now presented itself. In the very centre of an open space some fifty or sixty yards in circumference—for it was an almost complete natural circle fringed by trees and heavy bush—a white man was sitting on a fallen log, a big pipe in his mouth and a long rifle across his knees. His face, which looked low and brutal, seemed to peer out through a profusion of bushy beard and whiskers, and his manner of speech was aggressive and objectionable.
Within ten yards of him, bound hand and foot to a sapling, stood another white man, stripped naked to a waist cloth, yet looking, in spite of his degradation and emaciation, a brave man and a gentleman, whilst his style of address differed in a very marked degree from that of the scoundrel before him.
As our friends noiselessly gained their coign of vantage, the prisoner was speaking, and his voice, though clear, was so weak and low that the trio had to strain their ears to catch his words.
“Abiram Levert,” he said, “you have kept me bound to this tree for three days and nights without food, you have given me water to prolong my sufferings and keep me alive, and I tell you once and for all that your devilish ingenuity is utterly thrown away upon me. I am an Englishman, and a man, moreover, who fears and trusts the God you daily blaspheme in your false, infamous worship: and I warn you that no power on earth shall force or induce me to consent to my daughter’s union with such a wretched piece of carrion as yourself, having already half a dozen miserable so-called wives in your filthy harem. I would undergo a thousand horrible deaths sooner than agree to your proposals, and I pray God that Dora may die rather than fall into such abominable hands.”
The face of the Mormon assumed a positively Satanic aspect, and he nervously fingered the lock of his rifle, but suddenly rose and laughed a harsh discordant laugh, removed his pipe from his mouth, and expectorated violently. “All right, Jack Winfield,” he growled. “I guess I can wait; another week of this will bring you to your senses; and if it doesn’t—why, I’ll carry your pretty daughter off into the woods, and then perhaps she’ll be glad to form one of my establishment, if she can get the chance,” and the villain turned to walk away.
And now was enacted a singular drama—part tragedy, part comedy.
The cousins, with their rifles cocked, had been watching every action of the Mormon so closely that they had quite forgotten their Zulu friend, and just as the man who had been designated as Abiram Levert was about to leave the glade and betake himself to the forest on the side farthest from their hiding-place, to the utter astonishment of the watchers, Myzukulwa coolly stepped out into the open and barred his passage in a threatening manner. Quick as thought the Mormon threw forward his rifle, but before he could pull the trigger the active Zulu had struck up his muzzle and the piece was harmlessly discharged in the air.
Myzukulwa promptly followed up his advantage, and aimed a thrust at his enemy which would certainly have annihilated him, when his spear was deftly turned aside by a similar weapon, from which it struck a veritable shower of sparks, and the Zulu found himself fully employed in protecting his own epidermis from the spear of a splendid-looking man, who might easily have passed for one of his own people.
Taking advantage of this diversion in his favour, the cowardly Mormon drew a murderous-looking hunting-knife, and, walking up to the Zulu, prepared to strike him in the back. The moment he raised the weapon, however, Grenville’s rifle vomited a sheet of flame through the bushes, and Brother Abiram Levert bit the dust, with a heavy bullet through his brain.
The cousins watched anxiously for a chance of disposing of Myzukulwa’s opponent in like manner, but the evolutions of the combatants were much too complicated to admit of shooting one without very great risk to the other.