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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 230 pages of information about Benita, an African romance.

“Look,” she whispered, “look!” and Mr. Clifford stared down the line of her outstretched finger.

“The Matabele,” he said.  “My God! the Matabele!”

XV

THE CHASE

The Matabele it was, sure enough; there could be no doubt of it, for soon three other men joined the sentry and began to talk with him, pointing with their great spears at the side of the hill.  Evidently they were arranging a surprise when there was sufficient light to carry it out.

“They have seen our fire,” whispered her father to Benita; “now, if we wish to save our lives, there is only one thing to do—­ride for it before they muster.  The impi will be camped upon the other side of the hill, so we must take the road we came by.”

“That runs back to Bambatse,” faltered Benita.

“Bambatse is better than the grave,” said her father.  “Pray Heaven that we may get there.”

To this argument there was no answer, so having drunk a sup of water, and swallowing a few mouthfuls of food as they went, they crept to the horses, mounted them, and as silently as possible began to ride down the hill.

The sentry was alone again, the other three men having departed.  He stood with his back towards them.  Presently when they were quite close on to him, he heard their horses’ hoofs upon the grass, wheeled round at the sound, and saw them.  Then with a great shout he lifted his spear and charged.

Mr. Clifford, who was leading, held out his rifle at arm’s length—­to raise it to his shoulder he had no time—­and pulled the trigger.  Benita heard the bullet clap upon the hide shield, and next instant saw the Matabele warrior lying on his back, beating the air with his hands and feet.  Also, she saw beyond the shoulder of the kopje, which they were rounding, hundreds of men marching, and behind them a herd of cattle, the dim light gleaming upon the stabbing spears and on the horns of the oxen.  She glanced to the right, and there were more men.  The two wings of the impi were closing upon them.  Only a little lane was left in the middle.  They must get through before it shut.

“Come,” she gasped, striking the horse with her heel and the butt of her gun, and jerking at its mouth.

Her father saw also, and did likewise, so that the beasts broke into a gallop.  Now from the point of each wing sprang out thin lines of men, looking like great horns, or nippers, whose business it was to meet and cut them off.  Could they pass between them before they did meet?  That was the question, and upon its answer it depended whether or no they had another three minutes to live.  To think of mercy at the hands of these bloodthirsty brutes, after they had just killed one of their number before their eyes, was absurd.  It was true he had been shot in self-defence; but what count would savages take of that, or of the fact that they were but harmless travellers?  White people were not very popular with the Matabele just then, as they knew well; also, their murder in this remote place, with not another of their race within a couple of hundred miles, would never even be reported, and much less avenged.  It was as safe as any crime could possibly be.

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