On seeing the prisoner into his cell, the officer again shook hands, and Grenville, with the intention of giving information to his friend if he were lying hidden close by, called out, “You’ll come and see me to-morrow, won’t you? I’m to be shot at sundown on Friday, you know; so you’ll have to entertain me until then.”
“With pleasure,” was the laughing rejoinder. “Good-night!”
Grenville’s precaution was well taken, for it so happened that Amaxosa had at that instant arrived within earshot of his friend’s words, which he heard with a grunt of satisfaction, as he had feared that after causing the death of Warden—of which act he had been an unseen and exultant witness—his chief would have been executed at daybreak.
The audacity and self-abandonment of the Zulu on this night had been simply magnificent. He had fearlessly climbed to the window of the room in which he believed Grenville to be, and had watched every movement of friend and enemy with eyes like coals of fire; and ill would it have fared with the two remaining members of the Mormon Trinity had they attempted any further violence against their prisoner.
As it was, Amaxosa had watched the movements of the patriarch, and having seen him, after the departure of his colleague, open a strong box and take out a lot of papers similar to that which his friend, the Rose of Sharon, had recognised as her own, he had quietly slipped in, brained the venerable “witch-finder,” and walked off with his possessions, coolly setting the house on fire before he departed, as silently as he had come. And now his fingers itched to slay the man who held the key to his friend’s prison, but knowing that in a few minutes the whole place would be agog with the fire, and the death of the prophet, he decided to postpone his operations until the following night. “His father” knew he had been at his side, and Amaxosa was content.
Hardly had Grenville laid himself down to sleep than his prison door was torn open, and he found himself the centre of a raging mob of human beings, all clamouring for his life; and had his friend the officer not been at his side, our hero would have been lynched forthwith. Finding out at last that he was in some way accused of causing the death of the Mormon Patriarch, Grenville asked to be permitted to speak; and when silence had been obtained he briefly and succinctly related the night’s events to the crowd—omitting of course the presence of the Zulu—and added meaningly, “You say your prophet has been murdered and the treasures of the Holy Three stolen. Believe me, I would never lift my hand against an old man who could not defend himself—I murder not, nor do I rob. With whomsoever you find the treasure, let him die; but do not attempt to sully my good name, which is all that is left to me now.”
Finally, after the officer had harangued the crowd, he succeeded in getting rid of them; and congratulating Grenville on his escape, he again took his leave, when our friend once more laid himself down—not, however, to sleep at once, but to reflect on the events of the night.
Truth to tell, he was inclined to ascribe the murder and robbery of the Patriarch to one of the Mormon’s own people, for though he knew Amaxosa hated the triumvirate with a bitter hatred, yet he, strange to say, was not given to “looting” in any shape or form; and Grenville was wholly at a loss to understand, moreover, how the Zulu could possibly have obtained access to the treasure chamber of the Mormon leader. In any case, he felt that whether Amaxosa was or was not responsible for the affair, he personally had lost a friend at Court, but that the Mormon community had at the same time been deprived of their best and wisest head.
Clearly there was nothing for the prisoner to do but to watch and wait. He had made up his mind to die, but with sublime confidence in his friends he felt certain that some effort would be made to save him, and he was fully determined that when the attempt came off, it should at least not fail from lack of readiness on his part.