them, some asleep, others chatting drowsily. Well for
him that he was cautious and that they were drowsy. But--where was
Hlangulu?

Then a thought stabbed his mind. He had brought back no spoil. The
Matabele, foiled in his cupidity, would have no further motive for
guiding him into safety. All his malevolence would be aroused. He
would at once jump to the conclusion that he had been cheated--that
Blachland had hidden the gold in some place of safety, intending to
return and possess himself of the whole of it. He would never for a
moment believe there was none there, or if there was that it was
inaccessible. A white man could do everything, was the burden of native
reasoning. If this white man had returned without the spoil it would
not be that there was no spoil there, but that he had hidden it,
intending to keep it all for himself. Acting on this idea Blachland
filled the pockets of his hunting coat with small stones so as to give
to the appearance of those useful receptacles a considerable bulge.
That would deceive his guide until they two were in safety once more--
and then--he didn't care.

A sound struck upon his ear, causing him to stop short. It was that of
one stone against another. Then it was repeated. It was the signal
agreed upon between them. But it was far away on the left. He had
taken a wrong bearing, and was shaping a course which would lead him
deeper and deeper into the heart of the Matopo Hills. He waited a
moment, then picking up a good-sized stone, struck it against a rock,
right at hand, thus answering the signal.

Had Hlangulu heard it, he wondered? It was of no use to go in his
direction. They might miss in the darkness, pass each other within a
few yards. So he elected to sit still. The rest was more than welcome.
His bruised ankle was stiff and sore and inflamed. Fortunately he
would soon come to where he had left his horse. Much more walking was
out of the question. Time wore on. He longed to smoke, but dared not.
He was still within the dangerous limits. He was just about to give the
signal once more, when--a voice raised in song hardly louder than a
whisper! It was Hlangulu.

The eyes of the savage were sparkling with inquiry as he ran them over
the white man. The latter rather ostentatiously displayed his bulged
pockets, but said nothing--signing to the other to proceed. Not a word
was spoken between the two as they held on through the night--and
towards t