he discovered them, they must make a dash
for it that moment, Haviland explained in a whisper scarcely above a
breath. The gun didn't count, he daren't fire at them in any event.

Suddenly the man stopped. Up went the gun, then it was as quickly
lowered. He had sighted the flight of the hawk above the tree tops, but
the chance was not good enough. And he had sighted something else, the
nest to wit. The bird was sure to come back to it, and so give him a
much better chance. Accordingly he squatted down among the undergrowth,
his gun held ready, barely twenty yards from the concealed pair, but
with his back to them.

That sparrow-hawk, however, was no fool of a bird. She seemed possessed
of a fine faculty for discrimination, and manifestly knew the difference
between a brace of egg-collecting schoolboys, and a ruthless,
death-dealing gamekeeper, and although at intervals she swooped overhead
it was always out of range, but still the latter sat there with a
patience that was admirable, save to the pair whom all unconsciously it
menaced with grave consequences.

For, as time fled, these loomed nearer and nearer. As it was, they
would need all their time to get back, and were they late for evening
chapel, especially after being granted leave from calling-over, it was a
dead certainty that the Doctor himself would have something to say in
the matter, at any rate in Haviland's case. And still that abominable
keeper lurked there, showing no sign whatever of moving within the next
half-hour, in which event it mattered little if he did not move at all.
A thin, penetrating drizzle had begun to fall, which bade fair to wet
them to the skin, but for this they cared nothing, neither apparently
did their enemy, who furthermore was partly sheltered beneath a great
fir. Haviland grew desperate.

"We shall have to make a run for it, Cetchy," he breathed. "Look,"
showing his watch. "If the beast doesn't make a move in five minutes,
we must run and chance it. I'll give the word."

The hand of the watch moved slowly on--one minute--two--three--four.
Haviland replaced it in his pocket, and drew a long breath: but before
he could give the word, his companion touched him and whispered.

"No run. He run. I make him."

"What?"

"I make him run. I flighten him. I ghost. You'll see."

For a great idea had occurred to Mpukuza, christened Anthony, named by
Saint Kirwin's "Cetchy"--and exactly one minute and as rapid a
me