Then it occurred to Benita that, placed as she was in that fierce light with only the sky for background, she must be perfectly visible from the plain below, and that it might be her figure perched like an eagle between heaven and earth which excited their interest.  Yes, and not theirs only, for now a white man appeared, who lifted what might have been a gun, or a telescope, towards her.  She was sure from the red flannel shirt and the broad hat which he wore that he must be a white man, and oh! how her heart yearned towards him, whoever he might be!  The sight of an angel from heaven could scarcely have been more welcome to Benita in her wretchedness.

Yet surely she must be dreaming.  What should a white man and a waggon be doing in that place?  And why had not the Matabele killed him at once?  She could not tell, yet they appeared to have no murderous intentions, since they continued to gesticulate and talk whilst he stared upwards with the telescope, if it were a telescope.  So things went on for a long time, for meanwhile the oxen were outspanned, until, indeed, more Matabele arrived, who led off the white man, apparently against his will, towards their camp, where he disappeared.  Then there was nothing more to be seen.  Benita descended the column.

At its foot she met her father, who had come to seek her.

“What is the matter?” he asked, noting her excited face.

“Oh!” she said or rather sobbed, “there is a waggon with a white man below.  I saw the Matabele capture him.”

“Then I am sorry for the poor devil,” answered the father, “for he is dead by now.  But what could a white man have been doing here?  Some hunter, I suppose, who has walked into a trap.”

The face of Benita fell.

“I hoped,” she said, “that he might help us.”

“As well might he hope that we could help him.  He is gone, and there is an end.  Well, peace to his soul, and we have our own troubles to think of.  I have been to look at that wall, and it is useless to think of climbing it.  If he had been a professional mason, Meyer could not have built it up better; no wonder that we have seen nothing more of the Molimo, for only a bird could reach us.”

“Where was Mr. Meyer,” asked Benita.

“Asleep in a blanket under a little shelter of boughs by the stair.  At least, I thought so, though it was rather difficult to make him out in the shadow; at any rate, I saw his rifle set against a tree.  Come, let us go to breakfast.  No doubt he will turn up soon enough.”

So they went, and for the first time since the Sunday Benita ate a hearty meal of biscuits soaked in coffee.  Although her father was so sure that by now he must have perished on the Matabele spears, the sight of the white man and his waggon had put new life into her, bringing her into touch with the world again.  After all, might it not chance that he had escaped?