Peter Halket stood below the tree with the knife in his hand.
The noise roused the whole camp: the men on guard came running; guns were fired: and the half-sleeping men came rushing, grasping their weapons. There was a sound of firing at the little tree; and the cry went round the camp, “The Mashonas are releasing the spy!”
When the men got to the Captain’s tent, they saw that the nigger was gone; and Peter Halket was lying on his face at the foot of the tree; with his head turned towards the Captain’s door.
There was a wild confusion of voices. “How many were there?” “Where have they gone to now?” “They’ve shot Peter Halket!”—“The Captain saw them do it”—“Stand ready, they may come back any time!”
When the Englishman came, the other men, who knew he had been a medical student, made way for him. He knelt down by Peter Halket.
“He’s dead,” he said, quietly.
When they had turned him over, the Colonial knelt down on the other side, with a little hand-lamp in his hand.
“What are you fellows fooling about here for?” cried the Captain. “Do you suppose it’s any use looking for foot marks after all this tramping! Go, guard the camp on all sides!”
“I will send four coloured boys,” he said to the Englishman and the Colonial, “to dig the grave. You’d better bury him at once; there’s no use waiting. We start first thing in the morning.”
When they were alone, the Englishman uncovered Peter Halket’s breast. There was one small wound just under the left bosom; and one on the crown of the head; which must have been made after he had fallen down.