Ronald saw at once as he rode up that although the Fingoes had arrived in time to save the waggons, they had come too late to be of service to the majority of the defenders. Some half-dozen men, gathered in a body, were still on their feet, but a score of others lay dead or desperately wounded by the side of the waggons. As soon as the Fingoes returned and reported the Kaffirs in full flight, Ronald and the troops dismounted to see what aid they could render. He went up to the group of white men, most of whom were wounded.

"This is a bad job," one of them said; "but we thought that as there were about thirty of us, the Kaffirs wouldn't venture to attack us. We were all on the alert, but they sprang so suddenly out of the bushes that half of us were speared before we had time to draw a trigger.

"What had we better do, sir – go on or go back?" This question was addressed to the young officer.

"I should think that now you have got so far you had better go on," he said. "The Kaffirs are not likely to return for some little time. I will give you half my Fingoes to escort you on through the wood. Don't you think that will be the best plan, sergeant?"

"I think so, sir. I will let you have half my men to go back with them. The rest of us had better stay here until they return. But, first of all, we will see to these poor fellows. They may not be all dead."

Most of them, however, were found to be so, the Kaffirs having sprung upon them and cut their throats as soon as they had fallen. Two of them who had fallen near the group which had maintained the resistance were, however, found to be still living, and these were lifted into the waggons. Just as the party were going to move on towards the coast, a groan was heard among the bushes by the side of the road. Ronald and two of the troopers at once proceeded to the spot.

"Good Heavens!" the former exclaimed, as he leaned over the man who was lying there, "it is Mr. Armstrong."

He was lifted up and carried into the road. An assegai had passed through both legs, and another had transfixed his body near the right shoulder. The point projected some inches through the back, the shaft having broken off as he fell. Ronald seized the stump of the spear, and with the greatest difficulty drew it out from the wound.

"Cut his things off," he said to the troopers, "and tear up something and lightly bandage the wound. I am afraid it is a fatal one." Then he hurried off to the men.

"Were there not some women in the waggons?" he asked.

"Yes, there were three of them," the man said; "a girl and two women. The women were the wives of two of the men who have been killed. The girl was the daughter of another. I suppose the natives must have carried them off, for I see no signs of them."

Ronald uttered an exclamation of horror; he knew the terrible fate of women who fell into the hands of the Kaffirs. He returned to the officer.

"What is it, sergeant?" he asked. "Any fresh misfortune?"

"A young lady, sir, daughter of that poor fellow we have just picked up, and two other women, have been carried off by the natives."

"Good Heavens!" the young man said, "this is dreadful; they had a thousand times better have been shot with their friends. What's to be done, sergeant?"

"I don't know," Ronald said, "I can't think yet. At any rate, instead of waiting till the party with these waggons come back, I will push straight on out of the wood, and will then send the rest of my men back at full gallop to meet you, then you can all come on together. I think you said you would take command of the party going back with the waggons."

The two trains were at once set in motion. Ronald's party met with no further interruption until they were clear of the bush. As soon as he was well away from it, he sent back the Rifles to join the other party, and return with them through the forest. He went on for half a mile further, then halted the waggons and dismounted.

Mr. Armstrong had been placed in one of the waggons going up the country, as they were nearer to a town that way than to Port Elizabeth; besides, Ronald knew that if he recovered consciousness, he would for many reasons prefer being up the country. Ronald walked up and down, restless and excited, meditating what step he had best take, for he was determined that in some way or other he would attempt to rescue Mary Armstrong from the hands of the natives. Presently the head man of the Fingoes came up to him, and said, in a mixture of English and his own tongue:

"My white friend is troubled; can Kreta help him?"

"I am troubled, terribly troubled, Kreta. One of the white ladies who has been carried off by the Kaffirs is a friend of mine. I must get her out of their hands."

Kreta looked grave.

"Hard thing that, sir. If go into bush get chopped to pieces."

"I must risk that," Ronald said; "I am going to try and save her, whether it costs me my life or not."

"Kreta will go with his white friend," the chief said; "white man no good by himself."

"Would you, Kreta?" Ronald asked, eagerly. "But no, I have no right to take you into such danger as that. You have a wife and child; I have no one to depend upon me."

"Kreta would not have a child if it had not been for his white friend," Kreta said; "if he goes, Kreta will go with him, and will take some of his men."

"You are a good fellow, Kreta," Ronald said, shaking the chief heartily by the hand. "Now, what's the best way of setting about it?"

The Fingo thought for some little time, and then asked:

"Is the white woman young and pretty?"

"Yes," Ronald replied, rather surprised at the question.

"Then I think she's safe for a little while. If she old and ugly they torture her and kill her quick; if she pretty and young, most likely they send her as present to their big chief; perhaps Macomo, or Sandilli, or Kreli, or one of the other great chiefs, whichever tribe they belong to. Can't do nothing to-day; might crawl into the wood; but if find her how can get her out? That's not possible. The best thing will be this: I will send two of my young men into the bush to try and find out what they do with her, and where they are going to take her. Then at night we try to cut them off as they go across the country. If we no meet them we go straight to Amatolas to find out the kraal to which they take her, and then see how to get her off."

"How many men will you take, Kreta?"

"Five men," the chief said, holding up one hand; "five enough to creep and crawl. No use to try force; too many Kaffirs. Five men might do; five hundred no good."

"I think you are right, chief. It must be done by craft if at all."

"Then I will send off my two young men at once," the chief said. "They go a long way round, and enter bush on the other side; then creep through the bush and hear Kaffir talk. If Kaffir sees them they think they their own people; but mustn't talk; if they do, Kaffirs notice difference of tongue. One, two words no noticed, but if talk much find out directly."

"Then there's nothing for me to do to-night," Ronald said.

The chief shook his head. "No good till quite dark."

"In that case I will go on with the convoy as far as Bushman's River, where we halt to-night."

"Very well," the chief said. "We go on with you there, and then come back here and meet the young men, who will tell us what they have found out."

The chief went away, and Ronald saw him speaking to some of his men. Then two young fellows of about twenty years old laid aside their blankets, put them and their guns into one of the waggons, and then, after five minutes' conversation with their chief, who was evidently giving them minute instructions, went off at a slinging trot across the country.

In less than an hour the party that was escorting the settlers' waggons through the bush, and the mounted men who had gone to meet them, returned together, having seen no sign of the enemy. The waggons were set in motion, and the march continued. Ronald Mervyn rode up to the officer of the native levy.

"I am going, sir, to make what may seem a most extraordinary request, and indeed it is one that is, I think, out of your power to grant; but, if you give your approval, it will to some extent lessen my responsibility."

"What is it, sergeant?" the young officer asked, in some surprise.

"I want when we arrive at the halting-place to hand over the command of my detachment to the corporal, and for you to let me go away on my own affairs. I want you also to allow your head man, Kreta, and five of his men, leave of absence."

The young officer was astonished. "Of course I am in command of the convoy, and so have authority over you so long as you are with me; but as you received orders direct from your own officers to take your detachment down to the coast, and return with the waggons, I am sure that I have no power to grant you leave to go away."

"No, sir, that's just what I thought; but at the same time, if you report that, although you were unable to grant me leave, you approved of my absence, it will make it much easier for me. Not that it makes any difference, sir, because I admit frankly that I should go in any case. It is probable that I may be reduced to the ranks; but I don't think that, under the circumstances, they will punish me any more severely than that."

"But what are the circumstances, sergeant? I can scarcely imagine any circumstance that could make me approve of your intention to leave your command on a march like this."

"I was just going to tell you them, sir, but I may say that I do not think it at all probable that there will be any further attack on the convoy. There is no more large bush to pass between this and Williamstown, and so far as we have heard, no attempt has been made further on the road to stop convoys. That poor fellow who is lying wounded in the waggon is a Mr. Armstrong. He was an officer in the service when he was a young man, and fought, he told me, at Waterloo. His place is near the spot where I was quartered for two months just before the outbreak, and he showed me great kindness, and treated me as a friend. Well, sir, one of the three women who were, as you heard, carried off in the waggons, was Mr. Armstrong's daughter. Now, sir, you know what her fate will be in the hands of those savages: dishonour, torture, and death. I am going to save her if I can. I don't know whether I shall succeed; most likely I shall not. My life is of no great consequence to me, and has so far been a failure; but I want to try and rescue her whether it costs me my life or not. Kreta has offered to accompany me with five of his men. Alone, I should certainly fail, but with his aid there is a chance of my succeeding."

"By Jove, you are a brave fellow, sergeant," the young officer said, "and I honour you for the determination you have formed," and waiving military etiquette, he shook Ronald warmly by the hand. "Assuredly I will, so far as is in my power, give you leave to go, and will take good care that in case you fail, your conduct in thus risking your life shall be appreciated. How do you mean to set about it?"

Ronald gave him a sketch of the plan that had been determined upon by himself and Kreta.

"Well, I think you have a chance at any rate," the officer said, when he concluded. "Of course the risk of detection in the midst of the Kaffirs will be tremendous, but still there seems just a chance of your escape. In any case no one can possibly disapprove of your endeavour to save this young lady from the awful fate that will certainly be hers unless you can rescue her. Poor girl! Even though I don't know her, it makes my blood run cold to think of an English lady in the hands of those savages. If I were not in command of the convoy, I would gladly go with you and take my chance."

As soon as the encampment was reached, Kreta came up to Ronald.

"Must change clothes," he said, "and go as Kaffir." Ronald nodded his head, as he had already decided that this step was absolutely necessary.

"Must paint black," the chief went on; "how do that?"

"The only way I can see is to powder some burnt wood and mix it with a little oil."

"Yes, that do," the chief said.

"I will be with you in five minutes. I must hand over the command to the corporal."

"Corporal James," he said, when he went up to him, "I hand over the command of this detachment to you. You are, of course, to keep by the waggons and protect them to King Williamstown."

"But where are you going, sergeant?" the corporal asked, in surprise.

"I have arranged with Mr. Nolan to go away on detached duty for two or three days. I am going to try to get the unfortunate women who were carried off this morning out of the hands of the Kaffirs." The corporal looked at him as if he had doubts as to his sanity.

"I may not succeed," Ronald went on, "but I am going to try. At any rate, I hand over the command to you. I quite understand that Mr. Nolan cannot give me leave, and that I run the risk of punishment for leaving the convoy; but I have made up my mind to risk that."

"Well, of course you know best, sergeant; but it seems to me that, punishment or no punishment, there is not much chance of your rejoining the corps; it is just throwing away your life going among them savages."

"I don't think it is as bad as that," Ronald said, "although of course there is a risk of it. At any rate, corporal, you can take the convoy safely into King Williamstown. That's your part of the business."

Ronald then returned to the encampment of the native levies. A number of sticks were charred and then scraped. There was no oil to be found, but as a substitute the charcoal was mixed with a little cart-grease. Ronald then stripped, and was smeared all over with the ointment, which was then rubbed into him. Some more powdered charcoal was then sprinkled over him, and this also rubbed until he was a shiny black, the operation affording great amusement to the Fingoes. Then a sort of petticoat, consisting of strips of hide reaching half-way down to the knee and sewn to a leathern belt, was put round his waist, and his toilet was complete.

Nothing could be done as to his hair, which was already cut quite short to prevent its forming a receptacle for dust. The Kaffirs have, as a rule, scarcely any hair on their heads, and nothing could have made Ronald's head resemble theirs. As, however, the disguise was only meant to pass at night, this did not matter. When all was done, the Fingoes applauded by clapping their hands and performing a wild dance round Ronald, while the women, who now crowded up, shrieked with laughter.

The chief walked gravely round him two or three times, and then pronounced that he would pass muster. A bandolier for cartridges, of native make, was slung over his shoulder, and with a rifle in one hand and a spear in the other, and two or three necklaces of brass beads round his neck, Ronald would, at a short distance, pass muster as a Kaffir warrior. In order to test his appearance, he strolled across to where Mr. Nolan was inspecting the serving out of rations.

"What do you want?" the officer asked. "The allowance for all the men has been served out already; if you haven't got yours you must speak to Kreta about it. I can't go into the question with each of you."

"Then you think I shall do very well, Mr. Nolan?"

The officer started.

"Good Heavens, sergeant, is it you? I had not the slightest conception of it. You are certainly admirably disguised, and, except for your hair, you might walk through the streets of Cape Town without any one suspecting you; but you will never be able to get through the woods barefooted."

"I have been thinking of that myself," Ronald said, "and the only thing I can see is to get them to make me a sort of sandal. Of course it wouldn't do in the daytime, but at night it would not be observed, unless I were to go close to a fire or light of some sort."

"Yes, that would be the best plan," the officer agreed. "I dare say the women can manufacture you something in that way. There is the hide of that bullock we killed yesterday, in the front waggon; it was a black one."

Ronald cut off a portion of the hide, and went across to the natives and explained to them what he wanted. Putting his foot on the hide, a piece was cut off large enough to form the sole of the foot and come up about an inch all round; holes were made in this, and it was laced on to the foot with thin strips of hide. The hair was, of course, outside, and Ronald found it by no means uncomfortable.

"You ride horse," the chief said, "back to bush. I take one fellow with me to bring him back."

Ronald was pleased at the suggestion, for he was by no means sure how he should feel after a walk of ten miles in his new foot-gear.

CHAPTER XII.
IN THE AMATOLAS

The corporal had already spread the news among the men of Ronald's intended enterprise, and they gave him a hearty cheer as he rode off. Mr. Nolan had advised him to keep the native who was going to fetch his horse back.

"You won't want to walk into King Williamstown in that guise," he said; "therefore you had best put your uniform into the valise, and tell the man to meet you at any point you like – I should say the nearer to the bush the better; for if you succeed in getting the young lady out of these rascals' clutches you may be pursued, and, if your horse is handy, may succeed in getting her away, when you would otherwise be soon overtaken."

Ronald thankfully accepted the suggestion, for he saw that it might indeed be of vital importance to him to have his horse ready at hand.

With a last wave of his hand he rode off, the chief and his six companions trotting alongside.

The sun had set an hour when they reached the spot at which the chief had directed his two followers to meet him. They had not yet arrived.

"Do you think they will be sure to be able to find the place?" Ronald asked the chief.

"A Fingo never loses his way," the chief replied. "Find his way in dark, all same as day."

In spite of the chief's assurance, Ronald was fidgety and anxious. He wrapped a blanket round him, and walked restlessly up and down. It was nearly an hour before the chief, who, with his companions, had thrown himself down and lighted a pipe, which passed from hand to hand, said suddenly:

"One man come!"

Ronald listened intently, but could hear nothing. A moment later a dark figure came up.

Kreta at once questioned him, and a long conversation took place between them.

"What is he saying, chief? What is he saying?" Ronald broke in impatiently several times; but it was not until the man had finished that the chief translated.

"White girl alive, incos, the other two women alive, but not live long, torture them bad. Going to take girl to Macomo."

"Thank God for that," Ronald exclaimed, fervently, for he had all day been tormented with the fear that Mary Armstrong might have met with her fate directly she was carried away.

"Where are they going to take her?"

"A lot of them go off to-night; go straight to Amatolas; take her with them."

"How many, Kreta; will there be any chance of attacking them on the way?"

The chief asked a question of his messenger.

"Heaps of them," he said to Ronald, for the natives are incapable of counting beyond very low figures. "Too many; no chance to attack them; must follow behind. They show us the way."

"But how do we know whereabouts they will come out of the wood, Kreta? It's miles long; while we are watching at one place, they may be off in another."

"That's so, incos; no use to watch the wood. We must go on to the Great Fish River. Only two places where they can ford it – Double Drift and Cornetjies Drift, one hour's walk apart. Put half one place, half the other; then when they pass, follow after and send messengers to fetch up others."

"That will do very well, chief; that's a capital idea of yours. You are sure that there's no other way they can go?"

"Heaps of ways," the chief said, "but those shortest ways – sure to go short ways, so as to pass over ground quickly."

"What are they going back for?"

"No bullock in bush, incos, eaten up all the things round, want to go home to kraals; besides hear that many white soldiers come over sea to go to Amatolas to fight."

"How far is it to these fords?"

"Three hours' march. We start now. Kaffirs set out soon. Get on horse again."

Ronald was not sorry to do so, for he felt that in the dark he should run a considerable risk of laming himself against stones or stumps, and in any case he would scratch himself very severely with the thorns.

"Tell me, chief," he said, when they had started, "how did your messenger learn this, and what has become of your other man?"

"Not know about other man," the chief said. "Perhaps they caught him and killed him; perhaps he is hiding among them and dare not venture out. This man tell he go into forest and creep and crawl for a long time, then at last he saw some Kaffirs come along; he followed them, and at last they came to place in the bush where there was a heap of their fellows. They were all gathered round something, and he heard women crying very loud. Presently some of the men went away and he could see what it was – two white women tied to trees. The Kaffirs had stripped them and cut their flesh in many places. They die very soon, perhaps to-night or to-morrow morning. Then he crawl up and lay in the bushes, very close, and listen to talk. He heard that to-night heap party go away to Amatolas and take white woman as present for Macomo; then other Kaffirs come and lie down all about, and he did not dare move out till the light go away. Then he crawl through the bushes a good piece; then he got up and ran to bring the news."

"He has done very well," Ronald said; "tell him he shall be well rewarded. Now I think he might as well go to the camp and tell the officer there from me that two of the white women have been killed; but that the other has been taken away, as I hoped she would be, and that I am going after her."

"Message no use," the chief said, after a moment's thought; "better take him with us, may be useful by-and-by; may want to send to settlement."

"Perhaps it would be as well," Ronald agreed; "and the message is of no real importance."

After three hours' fast travelling – the natives going at a run, in spite of the darkness of the night, and Ronald leaving the reins loose, and trusting to his horse to feel his way – they came to the river; after making a narrow examination of the bank, the chief pronounced the ford to be a quarter of a mile lower down, and in a few minutes they came upon the spot where a road crossed the river.

"I think this way they are most likely to take," the chief said, when they had crossed the stream. "Country more broken this way, and further from towns, not so much chance of meeting soldiers. You and I and four men will stay here; three men go on to other ford, then if they cross there, send one man to tell us; the other two follow them, and see which way they go."

"Do you know the Amatolas at all, chief?"

"Not know him, incos; never been there; travel all about these parts in last war, but never go up to Amatolas."

"Then, of course, you do not know at all where Macomo's kraal is?"

"Not know him at all. We follow men, sure enough we get there."

The three men had not started above five minutes, when the chief said in a low tone:

"They are coming," and gave an order to one of his men, who at once set off at the top of his speed to overtake the others and bring them back.

It was nearly ten minutes before Ronald could hear the slightest sound, then he became conscious of a low murmur of voices in the air, and a minute or two later there was a splashing of water at the ford, fifty yards from the spot where they had lain down under a bush. One of the natives had, at Kreta's orders, taken the horse away, the chief telling him to go half a mile off, as were it to paw the ground suddenly, or make any noise, the attention of the Kaffirs, if within hearing, would be instantly drawn to it.

Dark as the night was, the figures of those crossing the water could be dimly made out, and Ronald judged there must be fully three hundred of them. After the first few had passed they came along in such a close body that he was unable to make out whether there was a female among them. The numbers of the Kaffirs sufficed to show him there was no chance whatever of effecting a rescue of Mary Armstrong while surrounded by so large a body.

As soon as all had crossed, two of the Fingoes followed close upon their traces, five minutes afterwards another started, and scarcely had he gone when the three men who had been sent to the other ford returned with the messenger who had recalled them. They left at short intervals after each other, and then Ronald mounted his horse, which had now been fetched up, and followed with Kreta.

"There is no fear of our missing them, chief?"

"No fear of that, incos; that star over there shines over the Amatolas, they go straight for it; besides, the two men behind them can hear them talking. If they turn off one come back to tell us."

But they did not turn off, but kept on for hours in a straight undeviating line, travelling at a fast walk. Roland Mervyn kept wondering how Mary Armstrong was bearing up. She was a strong active girl, accustomed to plenty of exercise, and at ordinary times could doubtless have walked a long distance; but the events of the day, the sudden attack upon the waggons, her capture by the Kaffirs, her uncertainty as to the fate of her father, the harrowing tortures of her companions, which she had probably been compelled to witness, and the hopelessness of her own fate, might well have broken her down. He was sure that the Kaffirs would compel her to walk as long as she could drag her limbs along, but as she was destined as a present to their chief, they might, when she could go no further, carry her.

He groaned at his helplessness to aid her, and had he not had a perfect faith in the cunning of his companions, and in their ability to follow her up wherever she was taken, he would have been inclined to take the mad step of charging right in among the Kaffirs, upon the one chance of snatching her up and carrying her off from among them.

Roland Mervyn, of the Cape Rifles, was a very different man from Captain Mervyn, of the Borderers. The terrible event that had caused him to throw up his commission and leave the country had in other respects been of great advantage. He had for years been haunted by the fear of madness, and whenever he felt low and out of spirits this fear of insanity had almost overpowered him. The trial had cured him of this; he had convinced himself that had he inherited the slightest taint of the curse of the Carnes, he would have gone mad while he was awaiting his trial; that he had kept his head perfect under such circumstances seemed to him an absolute proof that he was as sane as other men, and henceforth he banished the fear that had so long haunted him.

It was in truth that fear which had held him back so long from entering into a formal engagement with his cousin Margaret. He looked upon it as an absolutely settled thing that they would be married some day, but had almost unconsciously shrunk from making that day a definite one; and although for the moment he had burst into a fit of wild anger at being as he considered thrown aside, he had since acknowledged to himself that Margaret's decision had been a wise one, and that it was better that they two should not have wedded.

He had always been blessed with good spirits, except at the times when the fit of depression seized him; but since he had been at the Cape, and been on active duty, these had entirely passed away, and his unvarying good temper under all circumstances had often been the subject of remark among his comrades.

As he rode along that night he acknowledged, what he had never before admitted to himself, that he loved Mary Armstrong. The admission was a bitter rather than a pleasant one.

"I shall never marry now," he had said to his mother, at his last interview with her. "No wife or child of mine shall ever hear it whispered that her husband or father was a murderer. Unless this cloud is some day lifted – and how it can be, Heaven only knows – I must go through the world alone," and so he thought still. It might be that as Harry Blunt he might settle down in the Colony and never be recognised; but he would always have the fear that at any moment some officer he had known, some man of his regiment, some emigrant from his own county, might recognise him, and that the news would be passed round that Harry Blunt was the Captain Mervyn who escaped, only from want of legal proof, from being hung as the murderer of his cousin.

"I didn't think I was such a fool," he muttered to himself, "as to be caught by a pretty face. However, it will make no difference. She will never know it. If her father recovers, which is doubtful, she will go back with him to the old country. If not, she will go back alone, for without friends or relatives she cannot stay here, and she will never dream that the sergeant of the Cape Rifles, who had the luck twice to save her life – that is, if I do save it – was fool enough to fall in love with her."

An hour before morning one of the Fingoes came back from the front with the news that the Kaffirs had turned off into a kloof, and were going to halt there. The party soon collected, and retired to a clump of trees a mile back. One of them was ordered to act as sentry near the kloof, and bring back word at once should any movement take place. The rest of the party, upon reaching the shelter of the trees, threw themselves upon the ground, and were soon fast asleep; even Ronald, anxious as he was, remaining awake but a few minutes after the others.

The sun was high before they awoke. As they were eating their breakfast the sentry returned, and another was despatched to take his place. The man reported that he had seen nothing of the main body of Kaffirs, but that four of them were placed on the watch near the kloof. Kreta led Ronald to the edge of the wood, and pointing to a jagged range of hills in the distance said, "Amatolas."