Then Benita began her journey which, when the river was high, it would not have been possible for her to make except by swimming.  As it was, a margin of marsh was left between her and the steep, rocky side of the mount from which the great wall rose, and through this she made her way.  Never was she likely to forget that walk.  The tall reeds dripped their dew upon her until she was soaked; long, black-tailed finches—­saccaboolas the natives call them—­flew up undisturbed, and lobbed away across the river; owls flitted past and bitterns boomed at the coming of the dawn.  Great fish splashed also in the shallows, or were they crocodiles?  Benita hoped not—­for one day she had seen enough of crocodiles.

It was all very strange.  Could she be the same woman, she wondered, who not a year before had been walking with her cousins down Westbourne Grove, and studying Whiteley’s windows?  What would these cousins say now if they could see her, white-faced, large-eyed, desperate, splashing through the mud upon the unknown banks of the Zambesi, flying from death to death!

On she struggled, above her the pearly sky in which the stars were fading, around her the wet reeds, and pervading all the heavy low-lying mists of dawn.  She was past the round of the walls, and at length stood upon dry ground where the Matabele had made their camp.  But in that fog she saw no Matabele; probably their fires were out, and she chanced to pass between the sentries.  Instinctively, more than by reason, she headed for that hillock upon which she had seen the white man’s waggon, in the vague hope that it might still be there.  On she struggled, still on, till at length she blundered against something soft and warm, and perceived that it was an ox tied to a trek-tow, beyond which were other oxen and a white waggon-cap.

So it was still there!  But the white man, where was he?  Through the dense mist Benita crept to the disselboom.  Then, seeing and hearing nothing, she climbed to the voorkissie and kneeling on it, separated the tent flaps and peered into the waggon.  Still she could see nothing because of the mist, yet she heard something, a man breathing in his sleep.  Somehow she thought that it was a white man; a Kaffir did not breathe like that.  She did not know what to do, so remained kneeling there.  It seemed as though the man who was asleep began to feel her presence, for he muttered to himself—­surely the words were English!  Then quite suddenly he struck a match and lit a candle which stood in a beer bottle by his side.  She could not see his face while he lit the match, for his arm hid it, and the candle burned up slowly.  Then the first thing she saw was the barrel of a revolver pointing straight at her.

“Now, my black friend,” said a pleasant voice, “down you go or I shoot.  One, two!  Oh, my God!”

The candle burned up, its light fell upon the white, elfish face of Benita, whose long dark hair streamed about her; it shone in her great eyes.  Still she could see nothing, for it dazzled her.