s part. One must die or
both, and he had elected to be that one. Yet the actual horror and
sting of the death which now stared him in the face was indescribably
terrible.

Instinctively he took cover behind a stone--for the ground here was open
and broken. The Matabele, reckoning him a sure prey sooner or later,
had stayed their forward rush, and, halting within the bush line, began
to parley, and not altogether without reason, for there was something
rather formidable in the aspect of this well-armed man, who although but
one against their swarming numbers, was manifestly determined to sell
his life very dearly indeed. They had some experience as to what that
meant--and recently.

"Ho, Isipau!" called out a great voice. "Come now and talk with some of
your old friends."

"I think not, Ziboza," came the answer. "For the looks of most of you
are not friendly."

"Are you come to capture the Great Great One, Isipau?" jeered another
voice, and a shout of derision backed up the words.

"No. I came to find a comrade who was left behind sick. I have found
him--and now, _amadoda_, when I return I can speak more than one good
word on behalf of the Great Great One, and of those who suffered me to
return when they might have given me some trouble."

"When thou returnest, Isipau!" roared several of the young warriors with
a burst of mocking laughter. "When thou returnest! _Au_! But that
will be never."

"Nobody knows. I do not--you do not. But it will be better for all
here if I do return."

For a while there was no response, save another burst of laughter. Then
Ziboza spoke:

"Come now over to us, Isipau. We will take thee to the Black Elephant."

Blachland pondered. Could he trust them? If they actually meant to
take him to the King, then indeed he stood a good chance, for he did not
believe that Lo Bengula would allow him to be harmed, and he did believe
that once face to face with him he could persuade the fugitive King to
surrender. But could he trust them, that was the crux?

Rapidly he ran over the situation within his mind. This Ziboza he knew
fairly well as an inveterate hater of the whites, one of those moreover
who had perpetually urged upon Lo Bengula the necessity of murdering all
white men in his country. He thought too, of the moment, when disarmed
and helpless, he should stand at their mercy, and what that "mercy"
would mean why more than one act of hideous barbarity which he himsel