of old Dumela were humming through my brain, as I bent over
the dead boy in quest of spoor. Such was plain and abundant, and showed
that he had not been slain here, but had been deposited after death on
the spot where we had found him. But that we should find Septimus
Matterson alive neither of us ever for a moment dared to hope.

There was no difficulty in following the spoor by that clear light. The
savage murderers had left quite a broad path where they had dragged
their victim. No word did we exchange, Beryl and I. It was significant
that no thought of personal danger was in our minds, only a sickening
apprehension of what we were, at any moment, likely to come upon,
mingled with a fierce longing for revenge by reason of what we had
already found. These midnight assassins might even now be lying in wait
for us. Every bush might shelter a lurking foe, yet for our own safety
we had no thought. More than once in the course of my experiences I
have found myself in peril of my own life, but my feelings on such
occasions have been nothing to the awful boding suspense of that search,
through the still, unearthly midnight silence.

Suddenly our horses, which we had been leading as we followed the spoor,
snorted, and rucked back, nearly wrenching the bridles from our grasp.
Instinctively we both drew our revolvers; instinctively, too, we knew
that it was not the living that had startled the animals, but the dead.

Our quest was at an end. Septimus Matterson lay in full view, there in
the clear moonlight, but even before Beryl had rushed forward and thrown
herself beside him, we knew that there was no more life here than in the
poor little remains we had just left at no great distance away.

Yet, what had slain him? The attitude was calm and peaceful, for he lay
on his side as though asleep. No trace of wound or blow was upon him,
whereas the body of poor little George showed every mark of brutal
violence, from the deadly stab to the agonised contortion of his face.
But Septimus Matterson's strong, fine features were placid and
undisfigured. Then I remembered what Beryl had told me about her
father's life.

"He has not been killed," I whispered. "His heart has failed."

She nodded, but did not speak; and at that moment I could piece together
the whole of this grisly tragedy which the silent midnight bush had
witnessed: the fell carrying out of this grim vendetta which we ought
all to have known about and gu