Willem rode up to the pit and dismounted. Neither of them, as yet, spoke loud enough to be heard in the pits, and the two men down below were at this time silent, the dog alone continuing its cries of agony.
The only thing Willem saw on gazing down the hole was the wild hound still hanging on the stake; and taking aim at one of its eyes he fired.
The last spark of life was knocked out of the suffering animal; but the report of the great gun was instantly followed by two yells more hideous than were ever uttered by “wild honden.”
They were the screams of two frightened Africans,—each frightened to think that the next bullet would be for him.
“Arend!” exclaimed Willem, anxious about his brother, and thinking only of him. “Arend! is it you?”
“No, Baas Willem,” answered the Kaffir. “It is Congo.”
Through the opening, Willem reached down the butt-end of his long roer, while firmly clasping it by the barrel.
The Kaffir took hold with both hands, and, by the strong arms of Groot Willem, was instantly extricated from his subterranean prison.
Swartboy was next hauled out, and the two mud-bedaubed individuals stood gazing at one another, each highly delighted at the rueful appearance presented by his rival.
Slowly the fire of anger, that seemed to have all the while been burning in the Kaffir’s eyes, became extinguished, and broad smile broke like the light of day over his stoical countenance.