r with scenes of horrific ghastliness himself,
at what he now saw, peering cautiously over a great rock, Harley
Greenoak felt his blood run cold and his flesh creep.

Beneath lay a hollow, overhung by the beetling cliff. The place was
evidently the resort of a gang of cattle stealers, for the ground was
thickly strewn with the skulls and bones of cattle and sheep, but,
needless to say, the sight of these was not what had perturbed him.

In the centre of the place, slung to a thick, stout pole whose ends
rested on two rocks, was a human figure--what was left of one, that is.
It hung horizontally, bound to the pole by wrists and ankles, back
downwards, forming a bow, and underneath were the still smouldering
ashes of a large fire. The head hung down and the wretched creature was
quite dead, but the middle of the body, upon which the fire had played,
presented a sight that was indescribably horrible.

This, then, was the "roast" to which those human fiends had made
allusion, decided Greenoak; but why should the poor wretch have incurred
such devilish vengeance, for the body was that of a native, not that of
a white man? Mastering his horror and disgust, Greenoak stepped quickly
forward to investigate--and then the mystery stood explained. In the
agonised, drawn face of the dead man he recognised that of Mantisa, the
Police detective.

Like light the truth was borne in upon his brain. He pieced together
everything. The presence of Mafutana and Sikonile with the party
supplied the link. They had been lying in wait for himself, and in the
darkness had pounced upon Mantisa in mistake for himself, nor could it
have been long after the former had gone on with the horse. Yet why
should they have brought the poor wretch here to put him to such a
ghastly death? An assegai or two would have answered all purposes there
on the spot. And then a conviction of the real truth came home to
Harley Greenoak. They had tortured their prisoner to force him to
reveal his own whereabouts, and Mantisa had been unable or unwilling to
do so. A great wave of pity and admiration swept through Greenoak's
heart as he gazed upon the miserable mangled remains.

"Poor, plucky devil!" he said to himself as he turned away, for the
nature of the ground precluded any kind of attempt at burial. "Poor,
plucky, heroic devil! Well, he's gone aloft, that's certain, if any one
ever did get there, black or white."

As he left the place of horror,