'Look here, Teddy,' said Rolf Denison, addressing Vandeleur, whose turn had come round again for a yarn, 'You promised to tell us more about young what's-his-name, the Matabele boy who was half English, or something of the sort, and said he was a White Witch; you left him disappearing into the jungle, offended, and promised you would tell us about him reappearing "at a critical moment." I want to hear about that critical moment.'

'So do I,' Bobby chimed in; 'I was rather interested in that chap—what was his name—Um something—— '

'Umkopo,' Vandeleur laughed. 'All right, here goes, then, for my yarn; I fancy you'd be still more interested in Umkopo if you knew as much about him as I do; I didn't know then, mind you, when all this happened, nor did Umkopo himself; maybe I will make that into a yarn too, one day.'

Well, it was just at the beginning of the first Matabele war that I first came across Umkopo, and it was not until the middle of the second war—the rising in Mashonaland—that we met again. I was out hunting again when the new troubles broke out, and finding myself not far from Bulawayo when the rumour of war reached me, I made all haste to reach the town before I should be cut off by one of the large bands or impis of natives at that time prowling about in search of defenceless foreigners in outlying farms.

I was about thirty miles from Bulawayo, when a couple of Kaffirs, flying south, came across us and gave us news. The Mashona boys were 'up' everywhere, full of fight and full of mischief; already many farms had been attacked, and though the alarm had been sent east and west, and south and north, yet there were many of the new settlers in great danger, and—so far as human probability went—all or most of those who were not safely in Bulawayo would be cut off and murdered, and their homes pillaged and burned.

'You are as good as dead already,' they cheerfully informed us, 'unless you can somehow get safely into the town, and that is very unlikely indeed, because the Matabele are all round it, preventing people leaving or arriving.'

Of course this was said in Kaffir English, and certainly our informants looked frightened enough to warrant the truth of their news.

'Aren't they doing anything at Bulawayo to help the outlying farms?' I asked. 'Surely the towns people are not leaving them all to be murdered in cold blood?'

'They expect to be attacked themselves—the town is going to be besieged,' said the frightened Kaffirs; 'they are fortifying themselves and forming an army, but they are sure to be killed, every one of them.'

This sounded cheerful, indeed. Of course, so far as Bulawayo and its population were concerned the news was only partially true. Bulawayo, as probably you will remember, behaved most excellently; it not only defended its own women and children from attack, but contrived to send out parties of rescue to many of those known to be exposed to danger in outlying parts of the country, saving numbers of British men, women and children, who would have otherwise perished.

The Kaffirs continued their flight southward, and I found myself suddenly called upon to make a very important decision.

Twenty miles away, northward and eastward, lay the farm of a man who had offered me hospitality quite lately. This was Gadsby, a man of some thirty-five years, married and with three small children. His partner, Thomson, lived with him. In all probability these two men, Mrs. Gadsby, and the three little ones—dear little people, two girls of six and five, and a boy of about seven—were all, at this moment, in deadly danger. Surely the least I could do would be to hasten to their assistance; what with my two rifles, a few Kaffirs to keep watch and so forth, and my humble self to help with the shooting I might be of the greatest service—possibly even turn the scale against their enemies.

If I were to decide to take this course instead of making for Bulawayo, I should, of course, run the risk of encountering an impi of natives on the warpath, and I should then have my work cut out to come safely through the danger. But, on the other hand, the journey to Bulawayo was beset with equal risks, and Bulawayo was farther from this spot than the farm.

Naturally, there was in reality only one course open to a self-respecting man, and I decided at once that I would go to the Gadsbys.

I thought it right, however, to explain the matter to my Kaffirs; for it was clear to me that the news had greatly alarmed them, and some of them might prefer to go southward out of the danger-zone.

Three of the five decided to take this course; two—much to their credit—decided to stand by me; one was the driver of my ox-waggon; the other my chief hunter, a man who called himself Dicky Brown, a far better fellow than the Kaffir Billy who figured in the rhinoceros adventure, and who did not then greatly distinguish himself.

So we three set our faces towards Gadsby's farm, and we had not travelled five miles before trouble began.

We had stopped at the bank of a small river in order to search for a ford, when, sitting on a rock, awaiting the return of the Kaffir I had sent to prospect around, I heard a peculiar sound: a kind of rhythmical tramp as of many feet working together, walking quickly or trotting, accompanied by curious noises as of grunting, groaning, coughing, and so on.

'Matabeles—an impi!' said the Kaffir Dicky, his dusky skin looking an unwholesome ash-colour with terror.

Probably they had struck our trail and were in pursuit; it was a bad business at the best!

Well, there was not much time for preparation—five or ten minutes, perhaps, which we spent in fortifying ourselves as far as possible. That is, we placed the waggon along the river-bank in order to protect ourselves against an attack in the rear. We got the oxen tethered behind the waggon, and so we awaited developments.

The impi was now in full view, the whole five hundred or so of warriors trotting over the ground in step, going at a business-like pace—something like seven or eight miles an hour, the usual speed of a Matabele 'regiment' on the warpath.

Two hundred yards or so from us they pulled up, and one or two indunas or officers came forward. The Kaffirs were able to converse with the men, at any rate to understand their demands, and it appeared that I was summoned to give up my oxen, my stock of provisions, and my rifles and ammunition. When I should have done so to their satisfaction, I should be permitted to proceed to Bulawayo.

'To get my throat cut long before I got near the town!' said I. 'Tell them if they want my property they had better come and take it.'

This reply evidently did not please our friends, who returned to their main force looking wicked, and muttering I don't know what threats. Then I saw the entire impi spread itself out in a kind of semi-circle as though in preparation for attack; but instead of attacking us at once, as I expected, the men all sat down and ate the provisions they had brought with them. Doubtless it was their dinner-time and they saw no reason why they should not refresh themselves. We were caught all right—they had us in their power and they knew it. It was the delay that saved our lives, of course; for if they had 'rushed' us then and there, nothing in the world would have saved us from destruction.

We employed our time in attempting to strengthen our defences; that is, we brought stones from the river and built up a kind of little wall underneath the waggon so that at least no one should attack us from below; as for ourselves we got into the waggon, and I was busy teaching Dicky how to load my Winchester quickly, when the second Kaffir uttered an exclamation:—

'See—see!' he cried. 'See, master, a Matabele coming over the water!'

I looked up. Sure enough a 'nigger' was swimming the river, which was deep just at this place and about thirty yards in width.

I was about to raise my rifle to shoot the fellow, for at first sight it appeared to be an attack in the rear; but something about the man caused me to look closer; I seemed to know the face, which, though dark, was not quite so dusky as the usual complexion of the Mashona fellows, neither was the type of face that of the Matabeles.

I set down my rifle and waited until he should land. It had occurred to me that this might be Umkopo. A moment or two later he climbed ashore—it was Umkopo, sure enough.

'Umkopo!' I hailed him—'it is you!' I saw the youth stand and gaze at me. He was taller now than two years ago, and he wore—in spite of his soaking condition at this moment—an air of much dignity. He had on a Norfolk coat and trousers of obviously English make, though they were none that I had given him. Moreover, when he spoke to me in English, though he was by no means proficient in our language, yet he certainly spoke it much better than when I last saw him.

'Come up here and speak to me,' I said. 'Why are you there?'

Urnkopo laughed. He pointed in a dignified way towards the Matabele impi in the distance. 'I am here,' he said, 'because these fools are here. If I was not here you would die.'

(Continued on page 205.)