“Ngonyama!  Ngonyama!”

He brushed his hand across his forehead, and found his face burning hot.  He removed his blanket from his shoulders and sat up, still patting the jackal.  The fire was before him, and the dark ring of the cave’s mouth; but his eyes dilated as he looked, for within the glare of the fire was that same awful face he had seen down in the darkness.

He would have cried out, but his voice would not come; and with an effort—­for all the blood seemed to have left his limbs—­he slowly moved his hand to Mr. Hume’s.

The Hunter made no sign; but Venning, with his face turned still in a frozen stare towards the entrance, caught a change in the breathing, and knew that his touch had answered its purpose.  To the boy they were acting over the scene in the cavern again.  He was waiting for the shrill laugh, the sudden treacherous thrust of steel in the dark, and then the ring of metal on the rocks.

Then, without any sign having been given that he was awake, the jackal in a bound was over the fire, swollen to double his size by the bristling hair, and uttering as he charged a fierce yelp.

Muata seemed to awake and spring forward all in one movement.  A moment he paused in the glare of the light, stooping forward, the glare showing red on his blade, and the next he was gone with a war-whoop, and in his place stood the Hunter, crouching also with the broad blade in his hand.  Between the fierce yelp of the jackal and the spring of the Hunter only a few seconds had passed.  The three of them less than half a minute since had been asleep; and now, out of the darkness on the ledge beyond came the ring of metal and the savage grunts of men fighting for their lives.

Venning remained where he was, too ill to rise; and Compton, not yet trained to act on a sudden emergency, sat up, bewildered by the noise.

“Mr. Hume—­Godfrey—­what is it?”

“The witches,” said Venning, “out of the underground.  I saw one looking in.”

“Eh?”

Compton felt for his carbine, and, gathering his wits, ran out, receiving promptly, on getting within the ring of light, a blow on his arm, followed by a clutch at his throat.  Driving the muzzle of his gun forward into something soft which emitted a grunt, he freed himself from his assailant, and sprang aside.  He heard the whizz of weapons, the clash of blows, and saw dark forms indistinctly moving rapidly this way and that; then his rifle flashed as he saw a crouching form stealing upon him.

“Yavuma!” cried the Hunter’s voice, giving the Kaffir war-cry as he swung his terrible weapon at a foe.

“Yavuma ’” cried Muata, with the jackal snarling by his side.  “Fire, little great one, into the thick.”

It was very well to say fire, but Compton could not tell friend from foe until, bending low, he made out that while two men had their backs to the cliff there were others around them in an enclosing ring.  Judging these were the enemy, though he could make out no distinguishing point, he went down on his knee and fired rapidly.