e people took, wanting meat.
Afterwards I will return them."

"But--if you thought I was blown up with the house?"

"I could not think that, _Nkose_. Anyone else yes--but--well, the
cattle are there."

"You will not be the loser, Ujojo, no, nor Zwabeka. Now, when am I to
be allowed to depart?"

"_Nkose_ is sick."

"No; I am well now."

It seemed like it. Hope once more rekindled--powerfully rekindled--
seemed to have infused the sufferer with new life. His bruised leg was
still terribly stiff and painful, but the fever had almost left him.
That is a peculiarity of this up-country malaria. A man may be
shivering under eight blankets in the evening and the next morning be
standing about in his shirt loading up his waggons or donkeys. Lamont,
chatting thus with his guard on the morning after his visit from
Zwabeka, felt almost as if he had never had anything the matter with him
in his life.

"There is the doctor, _Nkose_," said Ujojo, with a sweep of the hand
beneath.

Zwabeka's runners had been swift. Crossing the stony hollow was a
horseman, and in a minute or two further Lamont and Father Mathias were
shaking hands cordially.

"Why we never expected to meet like this again, did we?" said the
latter. "Now show me where you have hurt your leg--you have hurt it, I
am told. You know, I have a medical diploma in my own country."

"Then you have a double-barrelled sphere of usefulness, Father. But--
how on earth did you get up among Madula's people? Why, the whole
country is in a blaze."

"I was called to see a poor white man who was dying. He was a sort of a
trader among them, and they were friendly with him, and protected him
when the rising began. He sent for me, assuring me that I should be
safeguarded until I was back in any township or post I should elect."

"And you put your head into a hornet's nest on that slender assurance?"

The other smiled.

"Why, yes; it is part of my commission. Would you shrink from going to
the rescue of someone, Mr Lamont, because the odds were largely against
you?"

It was Lamont's turn to smile now, and that grimly, remembering the odds
that had been against him in `going to the rescue of someone.'

"The poor man died, but I was just in time," went on the priest. "Then
I stayed on and doctored some of the people who were suffering from
ordinary ailments, and indeed from wounds. As for danger, they would
not have harmed me."

"No, not if you made your