the Kaffir servants' return, feeling
impatient now, and annoyed that they should have neglected him for so
long.

But there was no sign of their approach. The night was coming on fast,
and a faint star or two became visible, while the granite kopje rose up,
softly rounded in the evening light, with a faint glow appearing from
behind it, just as if the moon were beginning to rise there.

He waited and waited till it was perfectly plain that the man could not
be coming from fetching water, and, startled at this, he shouted, and
then hurriedly looked about in the various buildings, but only to find
them empty.

Startled now, more than he cared to own to himself, Dyke ran back to the
Kaffir's lodge, and looked in again. There were no assegais leaning
against the wall, nothing visible there whatever, and half-stunned by
the thought which had come upon him with terrible violence, the boy went
slowly back to the house, and sat down by where Duke was watching the
sleeping man.

"Alone! alone!" muttered Dyke with a groan; "they have gone and left us.
Joe, Joe, old man, can't you speak to me? We are forsaken. Speak to
me, for I cannot even think now. What shall I do?"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

DYKE SETS HIS TEETH.

No answer came from the couch where Emson lay exhausted by his last
periodical paroxysm of fever. The dog whined softly, and in his way
unintentionally comforted his master by comforting himself. That is to
say, eager for human company, he crept closer, so that he could nestle
his head against him, and be in touch.

That touch was pleasant, and it made Dyke pass his arm round the dog's
neck and draw him nearer, Duke responding with a whine of satisfaction,
followed by a sound strongly resembling a grunt, as he settled himself
down, just as the answer came to the lad's question, "What shall I do!"

It was Nature who answered in her grand, wise way, and it was as if she
said:

"There is only one thing you can do, my poor, heartsore, weary one:
sleep. Rest, and gain strength for the fight to come."

And in the silence and gathering darkness a calm, sweet insensibility to
all his troubles stole over Dyke; he sank lower and lower till his head
rested against the skins, and the coarse, sack-like pillow, formed of
rough, unsaleable ostrich-feathers; and it was not until twelve hours
after that he moved, or felt that there was a world in which he occupied
a place, with stern work cut out for him to achie