A Secret of the Lebombo Part 30

Le Sage nodded. He could trust himself for no further words, in the face of that fearful stony-eyed grief. Viewing this, at the moment he would have given much to have seen Wyvern standing there alive and well.

He had obtained his bitter, oft repeated, but secret wish, and now he would have given half he possessed had he not, as he read the effect of the shock in Lalante's face.

"Keep up, child. For G.o.d's sake keep up. You'll get over it," he jerked forth, as the tall, fine figure of the girl swayed for a moment, then leaned against one of the gate posts for support. Was she going to faint? No, she was made of stronger stuff.

"Get over it?" The words seemed almost demoniacal in their mockery.

"Get over it!" Why the world had come to an end for her from that moment. "Get over it?" Something of a wan smile came to her lips, at the bare irony suggested by the idea, as she stood, still grasping the gate post as in an iron grip. The face was white as marble, and the lips were set and blue. Only the great eyes moved, roaming listlessly here and there, but resting on n.o.body.

"And you--sent--him--to--his--death."

Le Sage s.h.i.+vered beneath the words as beneath the cutting of a lash.

The one awful fear then in his mind was that Lalante might lose her reason. In a rush of penitential tenderness, surprising in a man of his hard and calculating nature, he poured forth a torrent of adjurations to her to pull herself together, and muster up all her courage and listen to what there was to tell; and at length he prevailed.

"Let me hear all," she said, in a dull voice, sitting back in a low cane chair on the stoep, one in which _he_ had often sat. "No. I don't want anything," as her father besought her to let him fetch something in the shape of a restorative. "It's deeper than that. Only, my heart is broken at this moment. Well, tell me everything."

Le Sage was gulping with his own voice--in fact, could not command it.

"Tell me. Tell me," she went on. "How much longer am I to wait?"

"It's this way, Miss Lalante," struck in Warren, who having pulled himself together, now judged it high time to come to the rescue. "There was a scrimmage up there between the King's party--the Usutus--those who favour Cetywayo's restoration, you know--and the other faction--those who don't. Somehow Wyvern and his friend--Fleetwood the other man's name was--got between the two and were--killed. I have it from an eye-witness, another up-country trader, who, however, managed to escape."

"Who is he?"

"A man named Bexley--Jim Bexley. He's a rough customer but a reliable one. I'm afraid, in this case, too reliable."

"And he saw it done?"

Warren nodded.

"Could I see him?"

"Certainly. But--had you better? It will take a few days to get hold of him, but it shall be done if it would give you the smallest atom of comfort, as indeed what should not?"

"Did he see them killed?"

Again Warren nodded.

"Then how did he escape himself?"

There was an uncomfortable directness about this cross-examination which Warren didn't like and hadn't bargained for. He was a believer in woman's instinct, and to that extent began to feel uneasy. What if Rawson had been lying to him after all? But he answered:

"Just then the Usutus were attacked by the rival faction and in the confusion Bexley escaped. You see, he is an experienced Zulu trader, and knew a lot of them. Some of them would be sure to favour him. I received the news much earlier, but in order not to prematurely alarm you, I sent for the man himself so as to hear the story direct."

What was this? No word of thanks, of appreciation such as he had expected, pa.s.sed Lalante's lips. Her eyes were fixed on his with a hard, unflinching and, as he thought, distrustful gaze. As a matter of fact it was just that. A sudden instinct, an indefinable _flair_, had inspired in her mind an element of suspicion. Even the cleverest of actors may at times forget to keep up his part and this is precisely what Warren had done. Some of the intense jubilation which rang in his mind had overflowed into his tone, making his sympathy ring hollow, and even false. There and then Lalante formed the conclusion that he was not Wyvern's friend. But she said nothing. What did it matter? What did the whole world matter now?

Over the dusking plains the red afterglow shed its changing rays of beauty. There were the same familiar sights and sounds of the closing day, and the voices of life. Together they two had listened to it, had remarked on it often--the sweetness of the golden air, the rus.h.i.+ng forth of innumerable stars as the heavenly vault darkened. Side by side they had watched it all, and now--side by side they would watch it no more.

Without a word she rose, and, pa.s.sing to her room shut herself in, to undergo the first night of agony alone. The first night! and, after that the first awakening--in the morning!

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE SNAKE-DOCTOR.

Baffled in their search for Bully Rawson the disappointed savages surged round their two captives like a swarm of devouring ants; and, in fact, it was to the awful, torturing death by this instrumentality that they clamoured the two should be given.

The impi was made up almost entirely of young bloods. There were few head-ringed men among them, and even Laliswayo, though a chief was young for that dignity. His sympathies, too, lay far more with them than with the older and wiser indunas of the nation. In common with young bloods of whatever nationality demoralised by a generality of public disturbance, and collected together under arms by reason of the same, there was a strong element of irresponsible rowdiness among them which is apt to find its outlet in cruelty; and these were savages. Many hands fastened upon the bound and helpless white men, and they were dragged roughly towards one point where the bush line began.

"Ha! The black ants are hungry. The good black ants," was jeered at them. "Now they shall be fed, fed with white meat Ah-ah--with fresh white meat."

"But this is how you treat your _abatagati_," [Persons condemned for witchcraft] Fleetwood managed to get out. "We are not such. Therefore if we are to die let it be the death of the spear."

But a howl, wrathful and derisive was the only response. They were not going to be done out of their fun. It would be a novel sight to see how the black ants would appreciate white meat. An appeal to Laliswayo on the part of the victims proved equally fruitless, for the simple reason that the chief had purposely withdrawn into the background of his followers. He did not want to hear any such appeal.

The full horror of the fate in store for them was equally patent to both victims. They would be stripped and bound down upon an ants' nest, to be literally devoured alive by countless thousands of the swarming insects. It was a mode of torture frequently resorted to by all the native tribes of Southern Africa in former times, but usually only as the penalty of supposed witchcraft, and even then rarely among the Zulus. It spelt hours of indescribable torment and raving madness, before death brought a merciful relief.

"But ye are _abatagati_," roared the crowd. "It is through your witchcraft that Inxele has escaped. He was to have fed the ants. He has gone, therefore you must take his place."

"We are not _abatagati_. We are men," urged Fleetwood. "Let us then die fighting. Bring any two of your best fighters against each of us-- or three if you will. Then you shall see a far more warrior-like sight."

Derisive jeers were the only reply to this appeal, and now their tormentors flung them down on the ground. They had found an ants' nest, and the black, vicious insects, stirred up with a stick, were swarming to and fro, their venomous nippers open and extended. An animated discussion was going on among the savages as to which should be the first victim, and whether he should be hung by the heels to a tree with his face just touching the nest, or fastened down straight across it.

"Are they doing this just to scare us?" said Wyvern, through whose mind the bitterest of thoughts were surging. It was hard to die now just as that which they had sought was within their reach. But what a death!

Would Lalante ever come to hear of it, he wondered and would she, in time, when his memory became dim, console herself? And the bitterness of the idea well-nigh served to blunt the antic.i.p.ation of the ghastly torture that awaited. But as though to remind him of it some sportive savage, not minding a few bites, grabbed a handful of the stuff of which the nest was made, and incidentally many ants, and dashed the lot into Wyvern's face. A howl of glee went up as, stung by the venomous bites of the insects, the victim instinctively started, and his powerful convulsive efforts to burst his bonds produced a perfectly exquisite degree of amus.e.m.e.nt. In fact it suggested a new form of preliminary fun. Handfuls of the ants, and dust, were gathered, and placed within the clothing of the sufferers.

Their position was undignified, ignominious. To both of them this consideration occurred.

"Keep it up, Joe," said Wyvern, with an effort refraining from wincing under the abominable pain of the stings. "Here we are trussed up like a pair of d.a.m.ned fowls, but we needn't howl out just yet. Suppose that'll come later."

Their fort.i.tude seemed to impress the savages. They stared in wonder, reduced to a temporary silence. Then as the clamour broke out afresh, that it was time to begin on the real horror, an interruption occurred.

At first it took the form of a weird, long-drawn sort of chant, drawing nearer and nearer. The Zulus, whose attention had been concentrated on the two captives now turned it in this direction.

"_Whau_!" they cried. "It is the Snake-Doctor!"

In silence now they stood, as the sound approached, then divided, giving way to a tall and terrible figure which strode down the lane thus opened. For the limbs and body of this weird being were alive with hissing snakes, whose horrible heads and waving necks started forth from him in every att.i.tude and at every angle, while scarcely anything could be seen of him for the moving, glistening coils but his face. And that face! The fell ferocity of it no description could adequately convey, and to complete its horror it was deeply pitted with small pox.

In awed silence the warriors stood while this dreadful being moved between their ranks. Of them however it took no notice but advanced straight to the two helpless white men. And Wyvern, for all the strain of the peril he was in, was lost in wonder at the sight, for this was the third time he had gazed on this apparition. The first was on the occasion of the slaughter of the sheep, the second in the moonlit wildness of the Third Kloof, and now--here. What did it mean? Could it be that these people had real powers of witchcraft, or, as some believed, held real communication with the demon world? It really began to look as if such might be the case. How had this one escaped what seemed certain death, and not only that but had obtained power over the venomous reptiles, one of which ought by all physical laws to have been his destroyer on that first occasion? Could he have discovered some wonderful remedy known only to the natives, which had not only cured him but had rendered him thenceforward immune from their venom? It might be so; and being so the man might have turned the circ.u.mstance to account by setting up as a magician, and so have wandered up here.

"These are mine!" he mouthed, pointing to the luckless pair. "I claim them. Now shall my serpents rejoice."

A murmur of respectful a.s.sent went up at this, of eager a.s.sent. This would be a new and original mode of amus.e.m.e.nt, in fact an improvement on the ants' nest plan.

"This one first," said the Snake-Doctor, designating Wyvern, who in obedience to another signal was seized and dragged a little further off to a spot where the ground was quite smooth and open. Those who had thus dragged him withdrew, not without some alacrity, to a respectful distance, to watch the fun.

The Snake-Doctor advanced and drawing forth a long reptile, of the yellow-snake variety, held it by its middle, and, standing over his victim allowed it to make a vicious dart, which just stopped short of the latter's face. This was repeated again and again, the while from the crowd which ringed them around, now in respectful silence, a deep-chested gasp arose with every strike.

The said victim lay, looking upward at his tormentor. He had first intended awaiting the death stroke with closed eyes, but a sort of unaccountable fascination held them open. The black, cruel face, hideously pock-marked, the wool standing out in fantastic plaits from the head, like so many horns, made a satanic picture which the writhings of the satanic reptiles completed. A cold perspiration stood forth upon his face, as he expected every stroke of the deadly reptile to be the last. Then the Snake-Doctor desisted, gathering back the thing again.

Now the next act in this drama of torture by antic.i.p.ation was to begin.