ollowed, even as he
knew that every step of his way had been dogged from the moment he had
left the settlement. But the possibility of a formidable and cleverly
devised ambush being prepared for him in front, he had somehow or other
quite overlooked. So when he turned over his horse to Mantisa with
instructions to take it to a point agreed upon and await him there, he
was, of course, in complete ignorance of the trap into which his
auxiliary was about to fall. Even then, if Mantisa had carried out his
instructions to the letter, instead of taking a way of his own because
it was a little shorter, he need not have fallen into the trap at all.

Greenoak's object in getting rid of his horse for a time was that he was
going into exceedingly broken and rugged country, in parts of which he
could not ride at all. A led horse would be a serious impediment,
hampering him at every step, to say nothing of the repeated plungings
and stumblings of the animal among the rocks and stones being nearly as
good as a bugle for all purposes of telling undesirable ears near and
far that he was there. Again, it might neigh on occasion, which would
serve the same purpose.

Now he struck off at a tangent from his former line of route, and, after
some hours of steady walking, got among the broken precipitous ground
which overhung the river. Rising from far beneath, he could hear its
swirl and murmur. Further down he struck, his labours doubled by his
carefulness to avoid any and every sound. For sound travels far on a
still night, more especially on a river bank.

He looked about for a place wherein to ensconce himself so that he could
see without being seen, and soon found one that answered the purpose so
exactly that it might have been made to order. It was a depression
overhung by a great rock, and, lying snugly, with his gaze just over the
tip of a hollow, he could command a full view of the river drift, while
himself invisible from above.

And now it was as well he had had that long sleep in Matamzima's hut,
for the very restfulness of this place after hours of hard walking
rendered even his iron frame lax to the point of drowsiness. But it was
not far to dawn now.

The stillness was absolute, hardly the cry of bird or beast awoke to
break it. The loom of the Kei hills was well-nigh invisible against the
stars, so dark had become this darkest hour before the dawn. Then to
Harley Greenoak's ears came a far-away sound, faint b