During the whole of that day the party on the rock could descry in the far distance large bands of the slaver fraternity patrolling the southern veldt, and carefully searching the borders of the eastern forest, being evidently altogether at a loss to know what had become of the dangerous and hated foe, and yearning, no doubt, for the resuscitation of their slaughtered bloodhounds; whilst when night fell, the furthest limit of vision revealed, a hundred miles away, the fire-girt summit of the fierce volcano, its blazing peak hanging upon the distant line of smoke-beclouded sky like a glittering star of the first magnitude.
The night was very dark and moonless when Kenyon and Amaxosa left the outer cave to relieve Leigh and Grenville, who were keeping watch below the well; but, pausing before he entered the narrow passage, the American sent the Zulu forward, simply saying he would join him by-and-by, as he had yet some work to do, and so it came to pass that the two cousins returned to the cavern without having seen him, and that Amaxosa, keeping his lonely vigil by torchlight, passed through the most fearsome trial his courageous but untutored heart had ever known; for whilst he watched and waited, patient as a statue carved in stone, the great Zulu heard a light footfall behind him, and, turning quickly, beheld, to his utter horror, the well-known figure of the ancient Muzi Zimba approaching through the gloom. The warrior’s heart stood still with fear and his very blood froze in his veins—Muzi Zimba, whose dead body he had that very day helped to consign to its grave, and upon whose breast he had placed giant rocks to scare the beasts of prey; yet here he stood, and there before him in the flesh stood Muzi Zimba. Nay, it could not be flesh and blood, but a spook (spirit) of the mountain, and not even a child of the Undi could fight with spooks. Coming swiftly to him, the vision spoke quietly to him in broken Zulu. “Greeting,” it said, “greeting, Lion of the Undi, what dost thou here by night in Muzi Zimba’s secret way.”
“Greeting, great Father of the Spooks,” boldly answered the Zulu. “I do this here, I watch thy dark and narrow stair, oh, Ancient One, by order of the Great White Chief, my father, and if any enter to disturb thy restful peace, he dies a swift and easy death on this my ready spear.”
“Well done, Amaxosa,” was the cool reply which the astonished chief received from his ancient friend, the “Father of the Spooks,” as the dread thing deftly removed its flowing wealth of beard and whiskers, and revealed the clean-shaved countenance of Stanforth Kenyon, the American detective.
“Wow, Inkoos!” said the astonished Zulu. “Wow! the thing was indeed well done; and I, even I, the son of the witch-doctor, Isanusi, would have let thee pass and leave me for a spook. Yet, did it seem strange to me, my father, thou shouldst speak to thy son with the tongue of his own people, for ever I heard that the Ancient One who has gone from us, knew not to speak as speak the children of the Zulu.”
Briefly explaining his intentions to the chief, Kenyon carefully readjusted his disguise, and, nimbly mounting the ladder of rope, scrambled out of the mouth of the well, and at once found himself in a clump of bushes, and close to the outskirts of the slavers’ town, towards which he fearlessly directed his now seemingly feeble steps.
Well was it for Stanforth Kenyon that years of rigid training in his own peculiar walk of life enabled him to support to perfection the somewhat difficult, because exquisitely simple, character, which his supreme audacity had undertaken. The extreme darkness of the night was, however, favourable to his enterprise, as there were but few people about, and the detective found himself in the very centre of Equatoria without being accosted by anyone. The town, to his surprise, proved to be very compactly built, and consisted of perhaps five hundred houses, mostly composed of wood and roofed with iron, the only exceptions to this rule being what were evidently the public offices of the place, which were built of a mixture of sand and gravel, a composition going amongst the natives by the name of “swish,” and which presented, so far as he could see by the light of the oil-lamps hung round the buildings, an extremely handsome appearance.
Just as Kenyon was about to move forward after carefully taking stock of the place, a young girl started out from a side street, and laid a gently detaining hand upon his arm.
“Father,” she said, “I have looked and longed for thee every night, and feared that thou wert ill. Come and see my boy, I beseech thee, good father, for he dies—he dies before my face, and here is none to help but thee.”
With a sign of brief assent, the detective turned and halted slowly along, despite the manifest impatience of the young and anxious mother.