could be heard as the light wind played through the trees; the next, the
circle was broken, the whole mass of the Amatonga precipitating
themselves on the doomed Hottentot, throwing down the two white men as
they pressed on, and trampling them under foot, while the air, a moment
before silent, became filled with yells and discordant shouts, the
shrill scream of terror distinctly heard above all.

Hughes, not knowing what was to happen next, had seized the nearest
Amatonga brave and was busy throttling him, shouting as he did so as
loudly as the rest in his excitement. The man's eyes were starting out
of his head, his tongue was protruding, when a dozen strong hands
dragged the soldier from his victim, and thrust him bruised and
breathless into the hut. The missionary was there before him, and there
too stood the wily Umhleswa, showing his sharply-filed teeth, while his
little cunning eyes danced with triumph.

"Umhleswa is a chief," he said, slowly moving to the entrance of the
hut, and looking back on the astonished prisoners as he stood in the
bright sunshine. "He has not lied to his white brother." He waved his
arm and disappeared.

Volume 1, Chapter XIII.

THE AUTO DA FE.

With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his
sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its
owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed
rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had
come among them to take the sorcerer's place in the tribe that the
cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo's co-operation. Masheesh now
entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the
palmyra rope which yet bound the white men's hands as he did so.

Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand,
looking into each other's eyes, the soldier speaking first.

"The black scoundrel," at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and
shaking himself like a dog. "Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak
to Masheesh--will you?"

Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but
the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time,
then looking up into the speaker's face.

"The Amatonga must have blood," he said, slowly. "Shall it be the white
man's? Masheesh can do nothing."

"Will the chief try?" asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow
shake of the head, which told more than words could