“Never, never!” she exclaimed.

“But you shall, and you must.  I am your father and I order you.  As for me, what does it matter?  I may hide from them and escape, or—­at least I am old, my life is done, whereas yours is before you.  Now, good-bye, and go on,” and he let go of the saddle-strap.

By way of answer Benita pulled up the horse.

“Not one yard,” she said, setting her mouth.

Then he began to storm at her, calling her disobedient, and undutiful, and when this means failed to move her, to implore her almost with tears.

“Father, dear,” she said, leaning down towards him as he walked, for now they were going on again, “I told you why I wanted to run away from Bambatse, didn’t I?—­because I would rather risk my life than stay.  Well, do you think that I wish to return there and live in that place alone with Jacob Meyer?  Also, I will tell you another thing.  You remember about Mr. Seymour?  Well, I can’t get over that; I can’t get over it at all, and therefore, although of course I am afraid, it is all one to me.  No, we will escape together, or die together; the first if we can.”

Then with a groan he gave up the argument, and as he found breath they discussed their chances.  Their first idea was to hide, but save for a few trees all the country was open; there was no place to cover them.  They thought of the banks of the Zambesi, but between them and the river rose a bare, rock-strewn hill with several miles of slope.  Long before they could reach its crest, even if a horse were able to travel there, they must be overtaken.  In short, there was nothing to do except to push for the nek, and if they were fortunate enough to reach it before the Matabele, to abandon the horse there and try to conceal themselves among the ruins of the houses beyond.  This, perhaps, they might do when once the sun was down.

But they did not deceive themselves; the chances were at least fifty to one against them, unless indeed their pursuers grew weary and let them go.

At present, however, they were by no means weary, for having perceived them from far away, the long-legged runners put on the pace, and the distance between them and their quarry was lessening.

“Father,” said Benita, “please understand one thing.  I do not mean to be taken alive by those savages.”

“Oh! how can I——­” he faltered.

“I don’t ask you,” she answered.  “I will see to that myself.  Only, if I should make any mistake——­” and she looked at him.

The old man was getting very tired.  He panted up the steep hillside, and stumbled against the stones.  Benita noted it, and slipping from the horse, made him mount while she ran alongside.  Then when he was a little rested they changed places again, and so covered several miles of country.  Subsequently, when both of them were nearly exhausted, they tried riding together—­she in front and he behind, for their baggage had long since been thrown away.  But the weary beast could not carry this double burden, and after a few hundred yards of it, stumbled, fell, struggled to its feet again, and stopped.