tell that
they intended putting him out of the way. From their savage looks and
gestures he could see there was but little hope of his life being
spared. His captors would not dare to let him escape. He had learned
too much to be allowed to live. No assistance could be expected from
his master and companions. They were waiting for him far-away.

"Is this the game you have brought back?" exclaimed the man sitting over
the camp-fire, as the others came up dragging their captive after them.

"Yes, and as you are the cook, you must dress it for our dinners,"
replied he who answered to the name of "Shames."

"Well, why don't you tell me what this means?" interrogated the first.

"Only this: we have caught a spy. We have been tracked by him to this
place. But there's no great harm done yet. We're in luck, and nothing
can go wrong with us. Our catching this fellow is a proof of it."

A long consultation was now carried on between the ruffians, in which
they all agreed in the necessity of putting the prisoner to death.

It would never do to let him live. He would in the end bring them into
trouble, even if kept a prisoner for years. His tongue must be silenced
forever. There was but one way of silencing it. That was, never to
allow him to leave the place alive.

There was a point upon which his captors were a little in doubt. Had
the Kaffir undertaken the task of tracking them upon his own
responsibility, or with the knowledge and at the instigation of his
masters? In the former case only, would they be safe in destroying him.
In the latter, the act might be attended with danger. To make sure of
this, one of the three men--Van Ormon's brother it was--proposed going
back to the house, there, if possible, to ascertain how the case stood.
To this the other two readily consented; and, mounting his horse, he
rode off for the kraal of his kinsman.

As soon as he was gone, the others tied Congo to a tree, and then
seating themselves under the shade of the _cameel-doorn_, they proceeded
to amuse themselves with a game of cards.

Four hours passed,--hours that to the Kaffir seemed days. He was in a
state of indescribable agony. The thongs of hide that bound his wrists
to the branches were cutting into the flesh, and besides, there was
before his mind the positive certainty that he had not much longer to
live.

The fear of death, however, scarce gave him so much mental pain as his
anxiety to know something o