Matters were proceeding satisfactorily enough at Gerstonville, a farm lying some thirty miles north-east of Buluwayo, in Rhodesia. Richard Gerston had had the luck to peg out a fairly rich claim when, after the finish of the first Matabele war and the fall of old Lobengula, Buluwayo and the surrounding territories fell into the hands of the Company. Gerston had taken an honourable share in the fighting, and shared also in the privileges held out towards those who had been actively engaged in the war; and though his hopes—or dreams, as perhaps it would be more correct to call them—his dreams of finding gold upon his claim had not been realised, or had remained practically unrealised (for there were signs of gold here and there, though the precious metal had not been found in paying quantities), yet the soil was excellent, and his crops and his live-stock were doing wonders—so well indeed, that after a few months Gerston had felt justified in sending for his wife and two children from the Cape, where, for the present, they had remained waiting in anxious expectancy for the message which would enable them to start northwards in order to begin a new life in a new home in this new country.

For a year or two everything flourished. The farm had become a bit of England, though with African surroundings. Gerston's son Bruce, a lad of fifteen, was as much help to his father in the farm during working hours as his sister Kittie was to her mother in the house; while in the evening English outdoor games were the vogue; squash cricket especially, in which all the family took part, including Mrs. Gerston, who, however, according to the dictum of Bruce, "wasn't much good," and Kittie, who "played a much stronger game." Bruce had even attempted to teach a few Mashona labourers employed on the farm to wield the willow, but the result had been conspicuous failure; for not one of them displayed the smallest capacity for understanding the rules of the game, nor much inclination to run about or exert themselves after the fatigues of the day's work on the farm.

"Kittie, who played a much stronger game."

It was a beautiful summer's evening, during one of these games of "squash cricket," which was played on the rough turf outside the house, that a stranger strolled into the enclosure, an Englishman, though a hot and unkempt one, and stood still for a moment or two as his eye fell upon the unusual scene (in this part of the world) being enacted before him.

"Lord!" he muttered, "that's good! It does one good to see it."

Then he came forward, and Gerston, who was batsman on this occasion, catching sight of him, handed his bat to Kittie, and advanced to meet the stranger.

"You're welcome," he said. "Have you come far? We don't often have a visitor here afoot."

The stranger was an elderly man, though evidently wiry and active as a cat. He carried a rifle, and was dressed in "veldt" boots and the usual and appropriate costume of the country, much travel-stained and out of repair; his bearded face was lined and worn; he looked in need of rest, though obviously a hard man.

"I've come a goodish number of miles, mate, one way or another, and on my feet all the way; pretty well all over Rhodesia, you might say, and I've spent two years and more in doing it. Ah, and spent 'em well, too!" he added, with a wink, "and don't you make any mistake about it."

Gerston smiled.

"Prospecting, I daresay," he said.

The stranger nodded. "I don't choose my claim in a hurry," he continued; "I prefer to go the round and look about me. This seems a nice place. Any gold?"

"Not much," laughed Gerston; "just enough to keep us hoping for more; but the land's A1, and I'm not doing so badly."

"Ah!" ejaculated the other. "Good, good; you employ these Mashona rascals, I see. Well, look out if you're wise."

Gerston laughed again.

"Oh yes," he said, "I will look out; my Mashona boys are thoroughly domesticated; besides, they know when they are well off."

"Maybe," said the stranger; "but there is trouble in the air. I have not tramped all Rhodesia for nothing. I have seen what I have seen, and I have heard what I have heard."

Gerston received this Sphinx-like pronouncement with a smile, and the pair having by this time reached the house, the stranger was shown to his room, as naturally as though he had been an invited and expected guest.

There was no question of his begging a bed, or of any expression by Gerston of apologetical regret that the house was full; his welcome was a matter of course, for in the veldt open house is kept after the old-established Dutch fashion, and no one possessing a white skin and a smattering of European civilisation need sleep out in the air for want of a bed and a meal inside of four walls, if there be a settler's dwelling within ken.

The stranger gave his name as "Uncle Ben," and stayed for several days. He paid, as he expressed it, for his keep by giving Gerston the benefit of his experience as a prospector for gold, tramping the claim from end to end, accompanied by the boy Bruce, to whom he seemed to take a great fancy; but though this odd pair visited together every corner of the estate, and examined carefully every little kopje and gully in the place, Uncle Ben's verdict was quite unfavourable. There wasn't gold enough in the claim, he said, so far as he could judge, to coin a five-dollar piece, and the whole claim, from the point of view of the gold-seeker, was "not worth a tinker's curse."

As he delivered himself of this doleful dictum, the stranger suddenly produced a tobacco pouch, which he opened forthwith and held out to his host.

"See here," he said, "that's gold now—the real article, and I know—well, I know what I know."

"Which means, I suppose, that you could tell me where to find more of it," laughed Gerston. "Well, you're a lucky chap, and I wish you all success. When you want a partner to work the place you can come along to me."

"Ah!" said Uncle Ben sagely, "who knows?"

And Gerston, talking over this conversation afterwards with his wife, laughingly declared that he believed if the old fellow's pockets were overhauled, certain mysterious hieroglyphics intended to form a rough map would be found, and that this map would be the clue to some valuable gold shaft of which he had discovered, or imagined that he had discovered, the existence.

"There are plenty in Mashonaland," Gerston ended, "if only one could hit upon them."

Uncle Ben, as he insisted upon being called, proved a grand acquisition in the evenings, for he possessed a wonderful fund of stories, experiences of his own mostly; and these he was never tired of airing for the benefit of his listeners, of whom he had four in this house, all of the kind most charming to the narrator, because they were frankly and obviously interested and amused.

If his tales were to be believed—and the old man was accustomed to vow most solemnly that the experiences narrated were absolutely authentic—he had certainly been through every kind of adventure that the ingenuity of a humorous destiny could have invented at his expense: adventures with lions, with elephants, with Matabele warriors; perils by water and by land; in a word, every kind of experience likely to interest and enthral a listener had been his; and though, perhaps, listeners of the age of Bruce were the most delighted by his tales, they pleased almost equally listeners of any age, for they bore the stamp of truth.

It was natural, therefore, that young Bruce soon began to look upon the sturdy old stranger as a hero of the first water, a king among men, a person to be admired and loved and imitated, if the opportunity should ever arise; a mental condition on the part of Bruce which was confirmed by each new story of triumph over lions or other beasts, or of barely escaped capture by Matabeles or other bad characters.

It was while in the midst of an exciting tale of a night spent in the bare veldt within a hundred or two paces of an entire Matabele impi, during the whole of which time he dared not sleep, and scarcely allowed himself to breathe lest they should hear him; and of how at a critical moment he had sneezed—it was, in fact, exactly as Uncle Ben had reached this most critical point in his story that the sound of galloping hoofs suddenly became distinctly audible in the breathless silence into which the old man had been pouring out his yarns.

"Stop one minute, mate," said Gerston, rising; "let us see who this is. The letter-carrier, I daresay, though he doesn't generally ride that pace."

Gerston rose and went to the door. A moment later the panting horse of the new arrival pulled up at the garden gate, and the rider threw the reins over his animal's neck.

"Give me a drink, mate," he said, "I'm dead parched. Anything will do—water, or milk, or cold tea. I've brought awful news, but I can't speak till I've drunk."

"Brandy and water?" suggested Gerston; and the stranger nodding acquiescence, he was soon in possession of the "long" drink he craved.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, setting down the empty glass, "that's better. Well, the natives are up; they have risen, and are murdering the English wherever they can find them. Are you well armed here? Can you hold the house against a siege? You may have a visit from the blackguards before the night's out."

"You may have a visit from the blackguards before the
night's out."

The communication, absolutely unexpected by most of those present, fell like a bomb into the midst of the company. Gerston drew in his breath with a gasp, glancing at his wife and young Kittie, both of whom looked white and scared, though Mrs. Gerston showed her spirit by answering in a moment and with brave words her husband's eloquent glance—

"We've plenty of weapons and ammunition, and both Kittie and I can shoot a bit, if required," she said. "We shall know how to give you a helping hand, Dick; and we are not afraid, are we, Kittie?"

"Oh no, father," said Kittie, whose trembling lips proved, however, that she had not quite recovered the shock of the news.

"Well, ladies, you're a pair of the right sort, if I may say so," continued the new-comer, "and let me tell you, you'll want all your pluck and all your powder, for they can't relieve you from Buluwayo for several days; and you'll have to remember these blackguards don't spare women and children. I found poor Smithson and his wife both murdered and their house burned this very morning, before I got to their place to warn them. I'm on my rounds warning the farmers about; but God knows whether I can go any farther, for—see here—I've lost some blood; and to tell the truth, what with that and fatigue, I don't rightly know whether I'm standing on my heels or my head."

The stranger turned as he spoke, revealing a stained bandage beneath his Norfolk-coat at the neck.

"A spent assegai," he explained; "it caught me just in the fleshy bit between shoulder and neck; it was shied from an ambush as I galloped by; a few more inches one way and I should have been done for. That's the party which is heading in this direction."

"How far off was that?" asked Gerston, while his wife ran for warm water and a clean bandage.

"Ten miles," said the other, "more or less. You'd better begin fixing up your zareba at once. What's the nearest farm to yours, going east?"

"There isn't one nearer than Thomson's at the Black Kopje, twenty-five miles away; several places are bought up in between, but the owners haven't settled in yet."

"So much the better for them. Twenty-five miles? Lord! I don't know how I'm going to do it. You'd swop a horse for mine, no doubt; but in plain truth I'm fagged out, and this wound is burning like fire and fury just now!"

"Let me go instead of him, father!" suddenly exclaimed young Bruce. "I know the way, every inch of it; I could ride Donald over in an hour and a half."

Gerston looked pleased, but shook his head—

"No, no, my boy," he said, "that wouldn't do; you're not man enough yet, though I'm glad to see you've the spirit to offer. I shall ride across myself, for it's clear our poor friend here can go no farther to-day. Be getting Donald ready for me, Bruce lad, while I start with the defences."

But neither his wife nor Kittie would hear of allowing Gerston to leave them and go out upon this dangerous enterprise. He must stay, whoever else went, and look after his property and the lives of those who were dear to him.

"Let Bruce go rather than you," the mother ended, her eyes full of tears and a choke in her voice.

"Yes, do, father; let me go!" said Bruce.

"With apologies for interrupting family arrangements," began the old stranger, who chose to be called Uncle Ben, "I am the one that's got to go, and as soon as some of you have explained the road and lent me a nag, I'm off. You may be proud of this youngster of yours, boss; he's a lad of spirit, and he'll do well. Now which way do I go—north, south, east, or west?"

"I really don't know that we ought to allow you to risk your life," Gerston began hesitatingly. "The road's difficult to find if you don't know it, and it wouldn't do to get one's self lost in the veldt with those confounded chaps about, looking for white bodies to chuck their assegais at. You'd better let me go, mother; I can take pretty good care of myself; I shall be back by morning."

"Excuse me, mate," said Uncle Ben, "but I ain't one to be put off from his purpose by the danger of meeting a few Mashona fellows with assegais; I've something here that shoots straighter and harder and farther, in case it's wanted. Come, how does one steer, and what about a horse?"

It was obviously useless to waste argument upon the old fellow. His mind was made up, and it was quickly decided to let him have his way; the more so since, as a matter of fact, it was convenient enough that he should go, rather than Gerston, whose place was undoubtedly at the side of his wife and daughter, and at the head of those who would assist him to defend their lives and his property.

So Uncle Ben was duly instructed as to the road to Thomson's farm; and now it became evident that descriptions intended to direct a ride of twenty-five miles over the veldt are apt to bewilder as much as to enlighten, and that the old fellow's mind had been considerably mixed by his instructions as to the way he should go on reaching this belt of jungle or that kopje.

"You'd better let me go with him, father!" said persistent Bruce; "the cleverest veldt-traveller might lose his way between here and Thomson's. I shall surely be all right with Uncle Ben. You can give me a revolver in case of accidents."

"You can bet your last sovereign nothing'll happen to him while old Ben Caldecott's breath is in his body!" added the old fellow. "If he's going to be hurt, then I'm dead first, mind you; but the Mashona beggars won't catch me napping, you may bet. Besides, the lad would run quite as much risk at home to-day as riding over the veldt, seeing as how you ain't going to be let alone to sleep comfortably in your beds."

And presently, after some little opposition from his weeping mother, hotly combated by Bruce himself, and almost as hotly by Kittie, who was all for giving Bruce a chance of showing his spirit and distinguishing himself, the lad was allowed to get himself ready for departure. Preparations were in full swing for the defence of the house as the adventurous pair rode out upon their dangerous enterprise. Every scrap of cover within one hundred and fifty yards of the house was being cut down and removed, in order that the niggers, when they came, must advance over an open area well watched and easily swept by the bullets of the defenders.

Besides this, barbed wire was stretched here and there across the open space and tightly fastened to pegs about one foot in height, in order to trip up the enemy in case of a rush, when, in the confusion of their overthrow, the defenders would have the opportunity to fire several times into "the brown," as Gerston expressed it, before they should have recovered themselves.

Within the house everything was made as secure as possible against assault and battery, and every rifle and shot-gun (including two magazine rifles) was loaded and placed in the position laid down for it, only three windows being left unshuttered, for the use of sharpshooters. It had been intended to run up some kind of earthworks, surmounted by barbed wire, one hundred yards from the house, as a first line of defence; but when the native labourers were summoned to help in the work, not one of them was to be found, a significant fact which caused Gerston to look very grave.

"The rascals have had news of the rising, then," he said; "their messenger must have arrived almost as soon as ours—eh, Botley?"

Botley was the last arrival, he who had brought the disconcerting news of danger threatening.

"Before, probably," he replied. "I shouldn't wonder if it was one of your beauties that treated me to this little hole in the shoulder, on his way to join some murderous band which he and his fellows will presently bring down here to knock your head off, in gratitude for benefits conferred—the set of scurvy, thankless, godless black devils that they are!"

Without the native labourers it was quite impossible to undertake anything requiring so much expenditure in time and hard labour as earth defences, and the scheme had therefore to be abandoned.

Meanwhile we may leave Gerston and his little group of brave English hearts to defend their home and their lives as best they can against any overwhelming force that might be brought against them. Their good British spirit will not quail, we may assure ourselves, though they must fight against odds which might well appal hearts less easily daunted than theirs.

We therefore leave them with confidence to their enterprise, while we follow the steps of the oddly assorted pair to whose share has fallen the duty of riding out into unknown dangers, maybe to unavoidable disaster and death, in order to carry the message of coming peril to their unsuspecting compatriots twenty-five miles away, rather than allow a neighbour to be surprised, and perhaps fallen upon and ruthlessly murdered, he and his, for want of a word of warning.

It was late in the afternoon when the two set out upon their journey, well armed with rifle and revolver, and mounted upon the two fastest horses that Gerston's stables could supply. Young Bruce was wild with delight, scarcely, perhaps, realising the full peril of the enterprise in which he had been so eager to take a part. They spoke but little during the first half-hour's ride, being anxious to push on as fast as possible during the waning daylight. Bruce led the way, and rode so rapidly that after a while his companion bade him pull up a bit.

"It's bad policy, youngster," he whispered, "to box all your strength away in the first round. Look at my beast, he's badly blown."

This was the case. The horses were not accustomed to the present headlong method of travelling. They were used to quiet jogging about the farm-lands, or carrying their master from settlement to settlement at a respectable rate of progression; they were not in training for this kind of emergency riding.

"We'd better climb down and let them breathe a minute or two," said Uncle Ben gravely. "See here." He had loosened the bridle, and his horse instantly lowered its neck until its distended nostrils almost reached the ground, panting and wheezing in a state of breathlessness bordering upon actual distress.

"That's Donald," said Bruce; "he's a good goer, too, but he isn't used to this pace."

"Well, he shall have three minutes' law," said Uncle Ben, "or more if he needs it. Sit down a bit and we'll talk, but don't speak up at full voice. How d'you like this yer adventure, sonnie?"

"I love it," said Bruce; "it's exactly the kind of thing I do like."

"Ah—ever been in a fight, or had to struggle for your life?"

"Oh no, not yet," said Bruce. "I'm a bit young; but I hope to."

"Nor seen blood, and so on?" continued the old fellow.

"Oh, accidents and that kind of thing. I don't mind the look of blood, if that's what you mean."

"Well, I tell you, this is no child's play we're at, sonnie; recollect that. We may be caught in an ambush and assegaied before we rightly know we've been done."

"I shan't mind so much if only I can get the revolver off at them first!" said truculent Bruce.

"We may be chased and surrounded."

"Not on horseback. They don't ride, these Mashona fellows; they've no horses. We can always ride them down and be off, even if we're surrounded."

"Ain't you afraid?" persisted Uncle Ben. "Mind you, it isn't too late to go home even now. I could find the way from here."

"What are you playing at? Why d'you want me to go back?" said Bruce indignantly. "There isn't anything to be afraid of yet."

"Ah, but there may be!" said the other.

"Well, wait till there is, and then see if I funk, before you insult me!" replied Bruce; and in his indignation he spoke no more for the next five minutes, though Uncle Ben said he was a likely lad, and attempted to conciliate him with other similar compliments.

He descended, however, from the lofty pedestal of offended dignity when Uncle Ben suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence and stood silent, listening.

"What is it? What d'you hear?" asked Bruce, forgetting dignity and everything else in the excitement of the moment.

Uncle Ben remained silent for a full minute.

"Don't you hear it?" he said. "Listen carefully. There; d'you catch it?"

Bruce listened with all his ears; but those organs, not having been tutored, as were his companion's, to catch every little sound of veldt life, could detect nothing as yet.

"You'll hear in a minute, for they're coming this way!" said Uncle Ben. "But they're a mile off or more."

"Who, who?" muttered Bruce, his throat quite dry with excitement. "The Mashona fellows?"

Uncle Ben nodded.

"Now listen again!" he said.

Bruce did so, and this time he distinctly heard the rhythmical tread of a body of men apparently moving at a quick march.

"Trotting and coming straight for us along this path," whispered the older man. "You hear them now, I see. Well, there's no cover for the horses hereabouts; what's to be done with them?"

"Why can't we charge right through the niggers?" asked Bruce, partly in ignorance, but partly in bravado, for he desired to prove to his elder that he felt no fear.

"Nonsense. Not unless you're tired of life! At any rate I ain't, though I've had more of it than you. There may be a couple of hundred men here. What's to be done about the horses, that's the point? We can hide our selves and let the rascals pass, but you can't hide the horses. Will you ride yours back, and then mine 'ud follow? You'd be able to warn them, too, up at your dad's place."

"They don't need warning; they're expecting an attack," said Bruce hotly. "I'm not going back, I tell you. The horses will go by themselves if we can't keep them. They are often sent home that way when we are out a long distance from the house and don't want them hanging about all day. Let them loose and you'll see."

"Very well—stop—for the last time, now's your chance to go back; you'll be doing a service in warning the folks at home, and no one'll suspect your pluck."

Uncle Ben did not finish his sentence; for before he had delivered himself of it, Bruce had knotted the bridle over his horse's neck, turned the animal's head homewards, given it a sounding smack on the quarter, and the intelligent creature was in full trot for its stable, tossing its head and grunting with pleasure.

"Well," muttered the older man, "I've said all I can; it won't be my fault if you run your head into mischief after this!" And having thus absolved his conscience of all responsibility for his young companion's rashness, he followed the example of that determined young person, and sent his own horse careering after its companion upon the road for home.

"Now, sonnie, come off the path," he said, "and get behind the scrub with me. We'll see the rascals pass in five minutes, and when they're gone we'll push forward more safely."

"Aren't we going to have a shot at them as they pass?" asked Bruce.

The old man looked at his companion in surprise, not unmingled with admiration.

"Well," he said, "of all the gamecocks ever I met, you're the pluckiest. Give me your hand, sonnie. I'm sorry I spoke to offend you; it wasn't meant. No, we ain't going to shoot them as they pass, for we ain't anxious, either of us, for Kingdom Come. We might kill half-a-dozen maybe if we were lucky, but you may take your last oath that they'd kill two. Now, see here, I'm to be boss of this campaign, and you're to obey orders; don't you shoot, now or ever, until you're told. You're a fine lad for courage, but there ain't enough solid wisdom and experience in you to stop a bad tooth. Now, down with you behind this rock; they'll be out of that scrub and in sight in a minute."

Uncle Ben and his young companion ducked behind their cover none too soon, for hardly had they done so when, scarcely a couple of hundred yards away, there came a line of dusky forms, four or five abreast, that broke out of the scrub cover into the open, followed at a few paces by other lines, in what appeared to Bruce to be interminable numbers. Uncle Ben, watching the lad's face, saw it flush and pale and then flush again; his hand went to the revolver at his belt, but there the old man's nervous grip arrested it.

"No, no," he whispered, "no fooling; not if you value your life."

Bruce tried to whisper back that he only meant to prepare in case of emergency, but he found himself tongue-tied, not precisely by fear, but by a numbing sensation which was the result of the sudden realisation of actual danger for the first time in his life. The feeling passed off in a few seconds, and Bruce became master once more of his nerves. And now he was able to enjoy a very unique and peculiar spectacle, the passing of a body of Mashona or Matabele warriors on the warpath. Puffing, groaning, moaning, and wheezing they went, running at a jog-trot; and almost every man of the hundred or so of them relieved his exhausted energies by uttering sounds of one description or another, from a low grunt to a loud wailing cry, all of which seemed very weird and alarming to Bruce's wondering intelligence.

"The passing of a body of Mashona or Matabele
warriors on the warpath."

"Off to your dad's!" whispered Uncle Ben, as the strange body of black fellows disappeared in the gathering dusk. "Come, we will waste no more time!"

Then the pair moved quickly forward; there were still fifteen miles to go, and every step of it must be done on foot, and quickly.

"Are you man enough to jog-trot a bit now and then," asked the older man, and Bruce, for reply, struck into a run, and led the way so quickly that his companion was glad enough when he stopped again for breath and walked. Darkness came on, and Bruce became uncertain of the way, though he knew it well by daylight.

"There's a ford, five miles from Thomson's place," he said; "if we could only hit upon that I should find the road from there on much easier."

"Take the direction as near as you can get it," said Uncle Ben, "and maybe we shall strike the river above or below the ford."

So on they trudged, now jogging at a trot, now slowing into a walk, but covering the ground quickly; for they remembered that upon their speed might hang for all they knew the lives of men and women.

A lion roared in the veldt, within a mile of the scudding humans. Bruce shuddered but went on, resolved that his companion should not see that he was frightened.

Presently the brute roared a second time, almost paralysing poor Bruce's limbs with terror; for undoubtedly the animal was much nearer at this second time of roaring. With difficulty dragging his limbs, but resolved to go through with the matter, Bruce jogged on.

He heard his companion click his rifle behind him. Suddenly there came a rush and a scurry of many swift feet, some hundred yards in front of them. The scudding throng of animals passed across the path and away, and Bruce heard a third and a fourth roar, and knew that the old lion had made his spring and had failed, and was angry over his discomfiture.

He stopped and sat down suddenly, too frightened to move forward.

"Ah," said Uncle Ben kindly, "you're pumped out, lad; we'll have a bit of a rest."

"No, it's the lion," said Bruce truthfully; "I never heard one so close before; it is awful—will he attack us?"

"Not he; he won't be such a fool; if he did, we could smash him in a minute, never fear. Why, lad, if you ain't afraid of the Matabeles, you needn't mind him! There he goes again, farther away, you see; he's thinking of his antelopes, not of us."

So up jumped Bruce and away he sped again, guessing the road as best he could by the direction, and presently the pair reached the bank of a precipitous nullah, and Bruce nearly "took a header" over the rocky edge.

"Ah!" said Uncle Ben, "good; follow the line of the nullah, it will be sure to lead us to the river."

This proved to be the case, and a mile or two farther on the river itself was reached, but at a point either above or below the ford, Bruce could not tell which.

"Why, Lord, what does it matter, we'll soon find the ford," said Uncle Ben; "you're a clever lad to have struck the river; I'm darned if I ever met a lad I liked better; work up to the left a mile or two, and if that's wrong we'll come back and try the other way, it's only a matter of a few minutes."

Bruce was getting very tired, and sighed to think that he might have to travel several unnecessary miles up and down the river; but he pulled himself together and trudged on, looking out keenly for the ford, which he should recognise if he saw it.

Once a company of antelopes—maybe they were his old friends—gave him a great scare. They had come down to drink, and the startled creatures nearly knocked him down as they rushed madly, stampeding and mobbing, from the waterside when surprised by the wanderers.

A mile was covered and part of another, and Bruce thought he began to recognise the look of the river.

"I think we are getting near the ford," he said over his shoulder.

"Good; good, lad!" replied his companion laconically, saving his breath.

But now suddenly confronted them the most crucial moment of the enterprise.

"Stop, lad!" hissed Uncle Ben from behind; "stop a moment, I hear something."

Bruce drew up instantly, crouching down as he saw his companion do.

"Listen," whispered Uncle Ben; "I think it's the Mashona fellows again; they are fording the river; we must be close to the ford; or it may be a hippopotamus or a crocodile."

Bruce listened, his heart thumping loudly at his breast. He heard splashing and grunting; a moment later came the sound of measured running.

"It is the niggers," whispered Uncle Ben hurriedly; "we cannot go back, and I see no cover inland; we must take to the water; quickly, lad, follow me into the reeds; never mind the cold, go right up to your neck if need be!"

Very quickly Uncle Ben waded into the water; it was not very cold, but the bank shelved rapidly, and a few yards out the pair were up to their chests.

The reeds were thick, and formed a good cover.

"Bend, and let the water cover you to the mouth," whispered the old man; "go right under if they seem to hear or see us, and stay under as long as your breath lasts."

Bruce nodded, shivering.

The pair of submerged Britons were not much too soon in assuming their uncomfortable position, for in a moment the Matabele fellows were practically upon them, passing abreast of them at full run, groaning and grunting after their fashion, travelling in irregular lines of three, four, or six.

Unfortunately the body of "niggers" had but half passed by when some creature of the water took occasion to splash loudly several times in close proximity to our submerged friends, but whether a crocodile, or a fish, or some animal which had waded in to drink, Bruce never knew.

"Down under water, quick!" muttered Uncle Ben; and Bruce, taking in a great gulp of breath, obeyed instantly.

As he did so he became aware of a sudden stinging sensation in the upper part of his arm. Putting his hand to the place, under water, he felt that his coat was torn.

"I must have rubbed it against a stake as I ducked," thought Bruce, and dismissing the subject, he devoted all his energy to economising the stock of breath he had laid in.

When that was exhausted, at the end of thirty or forty seconds, which seemed an eternity to him, Bruce cautiously raised the upper part of his head in order to take in a new supply. As he did so he observed the last row or two of Matabele fellows halted upon the bank, and one or two of them in the act of throwing their assegais at some object beyond him on the left. Down went Bruce again very quickly, and it was nearly a minute later that his yellow head made its reappearance above the surface. This time he saw no Matabeles, they had gone on; but the old man, Uncle Ben, had seized his arm somewhat violently, and was muttering.

Bruce shook the water out of his ears to listen.

"Come ashore quickly," said Uncle Ben. "Are you wounded, lad?"

"Wounded? Not I," said Bruce. "Why? Are you? Did they shy those assegais at us? Why, then, it may have been one that touched my arm."

"Ah, you have a scratch I see!" said the older man; but he spoke in so strange a voice, that Bruce looked up from his own torn coat and slightly bleeding arm to see what ailed his companion.

"What's up, Uncle Ben?" he said. "Are you feeling bad? Why, you're never hit, are you?"

"Just a bit," gasped the old fellow—"here in the side. The blade of the thing's in me now. O Lord, the pain of it. I'll lie down awhile, that may make me better."

"O Uncle Ben, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Is it very bad?" cried poor Bruce weakly. He felt utterly helpless and frightened.

"I may be all right presently," said Uncle Ben. "Just give me a hand while I lie down. Oh! so, that's it; now I shall soon be better." And as though to prove how much better he felt for the change of position, the wounded man then and there fainted away.

Then Bruce, in his utter helplessness and misery, began to think how vain a thing is self-confidence and the pride of mere animal courage in an inexperienced lad of fifteen years. He had been ready and anxious to undertake the dangerous enterprise all by himself. What if he had been allowed to do so?

Well, he would probably have fallen into the hands of the enemy within half-an-hour of the start; if he had escaped the first danger, he would, maybe, have died of terror when within a stone's throw of the roaring lion. Again, he might have lost his way when, in the darkness, he missed the track; and now again, but for Uncle Ben's experience and alertness, he would assuredly have been caught and murdered by the Matabeles.

Sitting, helpless and miserable, over his unconscious companion, Bruce quickly realised all this, and with the realisation came a flood of tears, the first he had shed for many a day, and wrung from him now, not by fear, but by the sense of helplessness in this crisis.

What ought he to do—what could he do? Leave this poor wounded old man to recover consciousness or to die, or to fall, maybe, into the hands of a third band of rebel niggers, to be mutilated in their barbarous fashion before the breath was out of his body; to leave him lying here, and hasten up to Thomson's farm in order to warn the family? He could find the way from here easily enough. Or should he let the farm people take care of themselves, and attend to the duty which lay to his hand; namely, to keep faithful watch and ward over his wounded companion until day at any rate, when he might settle him comfortably somewhere under cover, and proceed upon his journey?

Bruce was no fool, and it occurred to him at this point of the reflections which passed in a kind of dazed procession through his brain that the last band of Matabeles had probably come from Thomson's. They had crossed the ford as though travelling from his farm; the chance was that Thomson was either already aware of the rebellion and in full defence of his property, or murdered, he and all his folk.

"No," thought Bruce, "I shall stay by Uncle Ben until he dies or recovers, and then go on by myself."

Bruce's fit of crying did him good. He put up a prayer for help in his terrible position, and that did him good also; and when at length old Ben sighed and opened his eyes, poor Bruce was feeling brave and confident once more, and ready to face destiny, whatever it might have in store for him. But he soon saw that there was little in the old man's condition to encourage him. Uncle Ben lay on his back quite still, gazing up at the stars, and Bruce sat still also, unwilling to disturb or perhaps startle him.

"Are you there, lad?" muttered the old man presently. "I don't feel as if I could move to look about me."

"I'm here, Uncle Ben," said Bruce. "Are you lying comfortable? Do you feel bad?"

"I'm going to die, lad, and that's the truth. Give me a drop of water—in your cap. Ah! now you listen to what I have to say, my boy. You be off at once to the farm and warn them. If they like to send down to fetch me when convenient, why, they may; if not, I'd as soon die here."

"I think these last Matabeles have been up there already," said Bruce, "else what were they doing at this ford? It isn't any use going there; I'd rather stay with you here, and see to you."

"Well, God bless you for the wish anyhow, lad; it's kind in you, and you may be right about the Matabeles. Stay on a bit if you like. I don't think I shall keep you long. Give me another drink. Lord! I'm hot, burning hot. Is the sun out?" The old man began to ramble in his talk, and Bruce, in his despair and inexperience, allowed him to wander on, saying nothing, but only dabbing a little water occasionally upon the old fellow's brow.

Suddenly Uncle Ben's manner changed. He spoke quietly and rationally once more.

"Are you still there, lad Bruce?" he asked. Bruce laid a cool, wet hand upon his forehead by way of reply.

"You're a darned good lad," continued the old man, "one of the best. I wish I had a son like you, you've stood by me till I died. Now, see here, sonnie; in my inner pocket is my baccy pouch; take it before you go away and leave me; it's full of gold dust; but that's of little account; what's more important is a paper with a map scrawled upon it. I did it before we started, case of accidents. The name of the village marked with a cross is Umdhana, thirteen miles north of Salisbury. The map'll tell you the rest. Lord, I can't talk any more. It's all yours when I'm gone, for you're a good lad, one of the best!"

"Maybe you won't die, Uncle Ben!" said Bruce weakly; he knew there was not much doubt of it, but could think of nothing wiser to say.

Uncle Ben did not reply, but lay with closed eyes. After a while Bruce saw his lips move, and heard him muttering, but concluded that he was praying, and did not interrupt him. When he looked again the old man was still, nor—though Bruce watched him carefully for nearly half-an-hour—could he detect the slightest movement of breathing.

Then a great horror came over the boy, for he looked upon death for the first time; his heart failed him, and he trembled, and went away where he could not see the body; and here he sat awhile in nerveless terror, unable to collect his thoughts or to decide what was best to be done.

He sat, helpless and dazed, for an hour, by which time dawn was beginning to make faint promises of a day to come with its joy and brightness in its own good time.

"I will wait," thought Bruce, "until it is broad daylight, and then I will go to Thomson's farm."

Then he lay down and tried to fall asleep, but superstitious fears kept him mostly awake, though he dozed at intervals. Once or twice he heard stealthy noises, as though the beasts of the forest came timidly to the water to drink; but he was startled by no roarings of the greater animals, and there was nothing to alarm him save the presence, near by, of grim death. Nevertheless, when light came Bruce felt impelled to approach and look upon Uncle Ben's body once more before leaving it, and he was surprised to find that this time, and in God's fair light of day, he minded much less. He even bent and laid his hand in farewell upon the old fellow's cold forehead, and as he did so he remembered Uncle Ben's request that he would secure his "baccy pouch" and its contents. Bruce easily found this pouch, and he pocketed it without much thought of its value, if any; and having thus secured his legacy, according to the testator's wish, he certainly thought no more about it.

"Bruce felt impelled to look upon Uncle Ben's body
once more before leaving it."

Then the lad made for the ford, which was but a hundred yards or so away; and here an immense surprise was in store for him; for in the very act of crossing the ford there came towards him a figure which at first sight he took for that of a native, a Matabele warrior, though clothed, it appeared, in the tattered relics of an English suit—a flannel shirt and Norfolk coat and trousers, and carrying over his shoulder a rifle, and at his belt a long and a short assegai.

For an instant Bruce's heart failed him. He stopped dead and crouched, intending to drop upon his stomach and crawl into cover.

But the stranger, it seemed, was quick-eyed, and had already seen him.

"Aha!" he called out, "young boy Englishman! do not hide; I am not one to hurt those that have white skins!"

Bruce was soon upon his feet again at the sound of his own language, though it was spoken in an odd, guttural way, and with a peculiar accent. He stared at the stranger coming splashing through the shallow water.

"Who are you?" he blurted; "and why do you speak so curiously?"

"I am Umkopo, the white witch of the Matabele. English born, Matabele bred. What are you doing here? It is a wonder that you are alive. Death is abroad, death to the English. What do you want here, I say?"

Bruce had heard of this man Umkopo, "The White Witch" as he was called. No one as yet, however, knew much about the mysterious individual, who was seen from time to time indeed, and had often befriended Englishmen in moments of danger and distress, but as to whose identity the vaguest and most varied opinions prevailed. Since the day on which Bruce met him in the manner described his history has become well known both in Rhodesia and in England; but this is not the place to recapitulate his romantic story, which, if he desires to know it, the reader may find elsewhere.

"I am on my way to Thomson's farm to warn them that the natives are up," said Bruce; "perhaps you have been upon the same errand?"

"Thomson is dead—murdered; so is his partner and the wife of his partner. Yesterday they were surprised and murdered. Bah! good English blood spilt by dogs of Matabele. Bah! I have done with them; I go with them no more; from this day I am an Englishman."

"Thomson murdered, and Hewetson and Mrs. Hewetson also!" ejaculated Bruce. "Then I am too late! Oh, how glad I am that father was warned in time!"

"Who is your father?" asked Umkopo.

"His name is Gerston. We farm the claim called Gerstonville——"

"I know," interrupted Umkopo; "and he sent you on here alone to warn Thomson. Does he hate you?"

"Rot!" said Bruce; "of course not. I was not alone; my companion is dead."

"Dead? What, killed by these dogs, like Thomson and the others? For each one I will kill ten Matabele, I swear it; and how have you escaped?"

"We hid in the water. Something splashed as they passed, and they threw an assegai and killed poor Uncle Ben; he lies just here, quite close."

"Ah, ah! show me! show me!" said Umkopo.

Bruce led his new friend to the place where lay the dead man, looking as though he slept quietly by the riverside, weary with travelling.

"Oh," cried Umkopo, with something very like a sob in his voice, "I knew him well; I have hunted with him. He was a good man—a brave man. I have learned from him many things."

To Bruce's immense surprise Umkopo threw himself upon the ground, and lay rolling and groaning a while, evidently overcome with grief.

Suddenly he rose.

"Come," he said, "we will make a hole, and put him in it. If they find him here they will cut and tear his body, because he was better than they, and braver and wiser. They shall not have him."

So with a little help from Bruce poor old Uncle Ben received burial at the hands of Umkopo, and right glad was Bruce that it was not destined that his friend should be left to be mutilated by savage enemies, or to be eaten by savage beasts or vultures.

"Now," said Umkopo, when this good work was finished, "we go together to Gerstonville. If they were warned in time, they will not yet be overcome; and if they still hold out, you shall see what will happen when the Mashona dogs see that Umkopo has come."

Bruce did not quite like the stranger. His manner of speaking was so strange, and his appearance so weird and even alarming; but he was evidently friendly disposed, and it was certainly comforting to have an escort or a companion—Bruce preferred the word companion—as far as Gerstonville.

But his half-fear of the man and every feeling of dislike soon passed away in wonder and curiosity as, on the way homewards, Umkopo waxed garrulous, and spoke of his own career—of his deeds among the great beasts of the veldt; of his bearding, on a certain occasion, of the terrible old King Lobengula, whom all the world feared, excepting, apparently, this wonderful fellow; and of many adventures and struggles with the Matabele people, who would not, for many years, acknowledge him as their principal "Witch" or magician.

"It was this that persuaded them in the end," said Umkopo, concluding his story, and patting lovingly the butt of his rifle: "this is the real witch, not I."

So interesting and absorbing was the conversation of his new friend that Bruce scarcely had time to realise that he was terribly tired, as indeed he had every right to be; and the pair had come within a mile or so of home, when Umkopo suddenly stopped and assumed an attitude of listening. When he did so Bruce listened also, and distinctly heard the sound of shooting, continuous shooting.

"Ah!" said Umkopo, "good! the dogs have not got into your father's kennel; now you shall see how Umkopo will sweep them away like the leaves that fly in wind-time! Come."

Umkopo seized the boy's hand, and set off at so rapid a run that even Bruce—as active a lad as you would find in all Rhodesia—could scarcely keep up with him, and was obliged indeed to pant to him presently to stop.

"No, no, not stop," said Umkopo, "not far now—run; Umkopo has learned from the springbok!"

Bruce pulled himself together, took deep breaths, and struggled gamely on. Once they stopped for a moment or two, Umkopo having glanced in the lad's face, and seeing that he was really distressed for breath. During those moments Bruce caught sight of Umkopo's expression, and was astonished and almost supernaturally alarmed at it. Umkopo's eyes were wild and blazing with a weird lustre; he held his chin high and his shoulders back, and muttered words, as he gazed straight in front of him, which Bruce did not understand, and which he concluded were in the Matabele lingo. He looked, Bruce thought, like an inspired prophet, the White Witch all over, excepting that his skin was scarcely to be described as "white," being, as a matter of fact, about half-way between that pale tint and the hue of the Mashona native.

Then on they scudded once more, and in a minute or two they had reached a spot within a furlong of the farmhouse, from which they saw plainly all that was being enacted at or about the building.

There were three separate groups of attacking natives, each hidden from the house by protecting cover of scrub or rock. Now and again a dark form or two rushed headlong towards the building, when a shot from an upper window would send the rash fellow either hurrying back into the cover or head first into the earth, where he would writhe and kick for a moment, and then lie still. Numbers of still, dark forms dotted the ground at all distances from the house, while a grim heap of the slain within forty yards of it, proved that some charge of the enemy en masse had with difficulty been stopped in time.

"Come," said Umkopo, suddenly and unexpectedly, "now you shall see!"

He started to walk rapidly towards the nearest body of natives. Bruce hesitated to follow, not quite comprehending his intentions, and more than half-mistrusting the wisdom of the proceeding.

"Come, I say!" repeated Umkopo, looking back over his shoulder; "fear nothing; I am Umkopo, the great White Witch!" And Bruce, rather than appear to be afraid, gripped his rifle and followed.

The Matabeles apparently recognised Umkopo at the instant of his appearance, for they sent up a babel of noise, every tongue of the two hundred there assembled seeming to contribute to the din of welcome, or the reverse—of delight or of rage, Bruce could not tell which, for the noise was deafening, and individual voices quite undistinguishable.

"They are angry," said Umkopo, "for they know that they act against my commands. What matter!"

A few individuals rushed forward, as though to fall upon Umkopo as he came; two threw assegais.

Without seeming to take aim Umkopo instantly shot both men; they fell dead almost at the same moment.

Then Umkopo said a few words in the native tongue, words which immediately raised a babel of din even louder than the first. Again Umkopo held up his hand and spoke, spoke fiercely and solemnly, as it seemed to Bruce, who could not, however, understand a word. One or two assegais were thrown, and again the aggressors were shot dead, almost before their weapons had left the hands that hurled them.

Then suddenly the whole body of men, with howls and yells and angry grimaces, turned and moved away, Umkopo standing, like implacable Fate, watching their departure. In five minutes they were a quarter of a mile away; in ten, they had disappeared out of sight.

"Go into the house, you," said Umkopo; "you have seen what you have seen. Tell them Umkopo will drive away the other dogs as he has driven these."

Full of wonder and admiration, Bruce did as Umkopo suggested. Yet, anxious as he was to see his parents and tell his story, he could not forbear to wait and watch Umkopo's dealings with the next batch of niggers before finally turning his back and hastening towards the house.

Here, it may be believed, a rapturous greeting awaited him; for, the horses having returned riderless, it had been a matter of miserable doubt to his parents whether Bruce was alive or dead.

Bruce enjoyed greatly the praise which was certainly his deserved portion, and he was still in the midst of the tale of his experiences when Umkopo suddenly reappeared. The White Witch made no greeting to any one present. He merely inquired "where the cartridges were kept—Winchester," and being shown the place, helped himself liberally and departed almost without a word. He did, however, honour Bruce with a whack on the shoulder.

"Aha!" he said, "we shall meet one day; you shall be a fine Englishman when you are grown full-size—like Umkopo!"

There was no more trouble at Gerstonville that day from the rebel natives; but the family did not, on that account, relax in the slightest degree their watchfulness; for though Umkopo had apparently frightened these bands away, there was no certainty that they, or others, would not return.

But on the following afternoon a body of Englishmen, many of them known to Gerston, rode in from Buluwayo, and these were greatly relieved to find that Gerston and his family were safe; they had not expected it, they said.

"You are luckier than many," said the leader, "and that's the sad truth; this rising's a very serious business. Get your light valuables together and come along, all; Buluwayo itself's in danger, but you'll be safer there than here."

"What, leave my house, and farm, and all I have to the mercy of any rascally niggers that come along to loot and burn!" exclaimed Gerston; "not I!"

"It's unpleasant, I own; but you'll have to do it, mate. Better that than certain outrage and murder."

"We could hold out for a week!" persisted Gerston, unwilling to surrender his house and his goods.

"Very likely. But after that week, what then? This rising won't be quelled for many a week, my friend, take my word for it. You'll have to come. I tell you we expect to be attacked in Buluwayo itself."

"Then maybe we are as safe here as there," said poor Gerston, feeling that his argument was untenable, and that he must indeed, as Bromley said, leave all and retire with these good fellows to the capital. His house and farm, his furniture and goods, valued English things, which had come so far and cost so much, and which represented, in fact, his all—it was hard indeed to surrender them; but the lives of his wife and children were dearer still, and must be saved at all costs, and he knew it, though in argument he fought awhile against the inevitable.

So poor Gerston collected his money and his papers, set his live-stock free to roam where they would, until the "Matabele thieves" should find and appropriate them, and set out for Buluwayo, in which growing city he was obliged perforce to remain until the native disturbance, which developed practically into a small war, was quelled.

Afterwards, as soon as he could do so safely, he lost no time in riding over with Bruce to the place where, until those evil days, had stood the homestead, with its farm-buildings and comfortable, though simply built, house and adequate cowsheds and stables. But alas! he found no trace of the home in which he had taken so great a pride and delight, excepting, indeed, sundry heaps of ashes and bits of blackened wood and twisted iron. Gerston stood and surveyed the scene of ruin and desolation. His heart felt very heavy, though he had scarcely expected to find any more favourable a state of affairs than this.

"I thought so, Bruce," he muttered; "we are ruined, my lad, through no fault of ours. We shall have to begin life over again. It is hard, but we will do it; the land is ours, but our capital has gone."

"We can have a try for Uncle Ben's gold, father," said Bruce unexpectedly. "Let you and I ride up north to the place shown in his map; mother and Kittie are all safe in Buluwayo. It's worth trying. He seemed very serious about his gold."

Gerston reflected. "I don't much believe in Rhodesian gold," he said; "but if your heart is set upon it, we may as well go. Meanwhile the authorities can be deciding what compensation is to be given to poor chaps who are ruined by their mismanagement of the natives."

So up northward went father and son, the latter full of sanguine hope, the former depressed and gloomy, having little belief in his lucky star, which seemed to have set so completely that it would never rise again. To the village called Umdhana they went, and there, using the old man's map, they searched far and wide for the old deserted gold shaft which, according to his scribbled directions, existed in this place, four miles from the village, at a spot designated in his rough plan. It was a wild-looking spot. Rank vegetation grew high and dense on every side, rendering the search for any object, especially when its location, within a few hundred yards, was uncertain, very difficult and discouraging.

For two days Bruce and his father wandered dejectedly about the veldt, hoping against hope that in the end they would stumble upon the old native crushing stones and the remains of the furnace which Uncle Ben's notes declared to be still in existence, and marking the very spot where, at a distant date, some enterprising Matabele fellow had endeavoured to exploit a vein of the precious metal, leaving it scarcely touched.

After two days of failure Gerston was tired of the search. He disbelieved in this gold mine. It existed, he said, only in the brain of a half-crazy old man, who imagined he had found what never actually existed. "We shall employ our time better, sonnie, felling trees at home, and building a new house where our poor old shanty stood."

"Perhaps, father!" Bruce sadly assented. He would much rather have stayed another day or two, being young and sanguine. "But I don't think Uncle Ben was even a bit crazy. We can't go on looking for ever, though." Bruce was angry and depressed. A vulture sat blinking upon a rock close by, and the lad picked up a stone to throw at the evil-looking creature, by way of working off his disappointment and chagrin.

He picked up his stone to throw it, but the vulture noticed his movement and heavily took wing. Bruce remained with the stone in his hand; it was a curious-looking stone, and he first glanced and then gazed carefully at it.

"The lad picked up a stone to throw at the
evil-looking creature."

"Father," he said presently, "look at this; is it anything particular—I mean, is it, could it possibly be—" Bruce's face had gone red with a certain wild idea that suddenly entered his brain; his voice sounded dry and curious.

Gerston took the stone and looked carefully at it. "By all that's happy and wonderful, Bruce," he exclaimed, "I do believe it's a nugget."

A nugget it was; and though the old disused gold mine, which they presently found close to this very spot, proved, like most of the Rhodesian gold veins, somewhat disappointing, yet it yielded, together with Bruce's nugget, more than sufficient to enable Gerston to rebuild his house and farm buildings, and to stock and furnish both in a manner quite superior to their former style.

And when the Company "came down handsome" with a good sum for compensation, Gerston felt that things were rosy indeed, and that when young Bruce made friends one memorable afternoon with poor old Uncle Ben he had indeed been, little as he expected it, "in luck's way."

As for Uncle Ben's baccy pouch and the untidy hieroglyphic which did duty for a map or a plan, they are Bruce's very most treasured possessions. He would not part with them for the wealth of the Transvaal!