her he thought how, under other
circumstances, he might have talked to her differently. But the horror
invisibly brooding on yonder sunlit hill was still to be reckoned with,
and now another anxiety was deepening within his mind. The witch-doctor
had not yet arrived, and his presence was essential to the carrying out
of the plot--and its frustration.

The tent-pegging, like the racing, proved, for the most part, poor; so
much so indeed that it was hard to work up any great enthusiasm over it,
though there was abundance of chaff. At the end, however, flagging
interest revived, for now the win lay between Lamont and Orwell, the
resident magistrate. Tie after tie they made, always neck and neck, and
it became a question whether it would not end in a tie. There was
plenty of excitement now, and shouting. Then there was dead silence as
the two men awaited the word for the last time.

Lamont settled down to his saddle. He would win, he felt, to miss would
be impossible. They were off. His lance was unerringly straight for
the peg. But as they thundered along he looked up--only one
lightning-quick glance, and then--his lance ploughed up the bare turf
while that of his adversary whirled aloft, the wedge of wood impaled
upon it hard and fast. And amid the roar of cheers that rent the air,
Lamont recognised that that quick side-glance he had been betrayed into
taking had lost him the day.

But that look--which had clouded his brain and unsteadied his wrist--not
upon her for whom he was here in these modern lists was it directed, but
upon a red object moving among the groups near the entrance gate of the
enclosure.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE RED SIGNAL--OR THE WHITE?

"Why--it is. It's old Qubani," said Driffield.

"And who might old `Click'-ubani be?" asked Clare.

"He's a thundering big Matabele witch-doctor. Fancy the old boy rolling
up to see the fun. Wonder they let him in."

"It was thanks to you, Driffield," said a man who was within earshot.
"He was asking for you. Told them at the gate that you and Lamont had
invited him to come."

"Then he told a whacking big lie, at any rate as far as I am concerned.
Well, I suppose I must go and talk to him, and incidentally stand him
something. In my line it's everything to be well in with influential
natives."

"Can't you bring him here, Mr Driffield?" asked Clare. "I'd like to
talk to a Matabele chief--didn't you say he was a chief?"

"No; a witch-do