Benita went.  The mist was thinning now, and through it she saw a sight at which her heart sank, for between her and the mount Bambatse Matabele were pouring towards their camp on the river’s edge.  They were cut off.  A couple of minutes later Robert joined her, and as he came she looked at him anxiously in the growing light.  He seemed older than when they had parted on the Zanzibar; changed, too, for now his face was serious, and he had grown a beard; also, he appeared to limp.

“I am afraid there is an end,” she said, pointing to the Matabele below.

“Yes, it looks like it.  But like you, I say, what does it matter now?” and he took her hand in his, adding:  “let us be happy while we can if only for a few minutes.  They will be here presently.”

“What are you?” she asked.  “A prisoner?”

“That’s it.  I was following you when they captured me; for I have been here before and knew the way.  They were going to kill me on general principles, only it occurred to one of them who was more intelligent than the rest that I, being a white man, might be able to show them how to storm the place.  Now I was sure that you were there, for I saw you standing on that point, though they thought you were the Spirit of Bambatse.  So I wasn’t anxious to help them, for then—­you know what happens when the Matabele are the stormers!  But—­as you still lived—­I wasn’t anxious to die either.  So I set them to work to dig a hole with their assegais and sharp axes, through granite.  They have completed exactly twenty feet of it, and I reckon that there are one hundred and forty to go.  Last night they got tired of that tunnel and talked of killing me again, unless I could show them a better plan.  Now all the fat is in the fire, and I don’t know what is to happen.  Hullo! here they come.  Hide in the waggon, quick!”

Benita obeyed, and from under cover of the tent where the Matabele could not see her, watched and listened.  The party that approached consisted of a chief and about twenty men, who marched behind him as a guard.  Benita knew that chief.  He was the captain Maduna, he of the royal blood whose life she had saved.  By his side was a Natal Zulu, Robert Seymour’s driver, who could speak English and acted as interpreter.

“White man,” said Maduna, “a message has reached us from our king.  Lobengula makes a great war and has need of us.  He summons us back from this petty fray, this fight against cowards who hide behind walls, whom otherwise we would have killed, everyone, yes, if we sat here till we grew old.  So for this time we leave them alone.”

Robert answered politely that he was glad to hear it, and wished them a good journey.

“Wish yourself a good journey, white man,” was the stern reply.

“Why?  Do you desire that I should accompany you to Lobengula?”

“No, you go before us to the kraal of the Black One who is even greater than the child of Moselikatse, to that king who is called Death.”