It was a leopard—­a tiger as they call it in Africa—­which, crouched upon a bough of the tree above, had been unable to resist the temptation of satisfying its savage appetite on the man below.  For a second or two there was silence, broken only by the purring, or rather the snoring sound made by the leopard.  In those seconds, strangely enough, there sprang up before Hadden’s mental vision a picture of the inyanga called Inyosi or the Bee, her death-like head resting against the thatch of the hut, and her death-like lips muttering “think of my word when the great cat purrs above your face.”

Then the brute put out its strength.  The claws of one paw it drove deep into the muscles of his left thigh, while with another it scratched at his breast, tearing the clothes from it and furrowing the flesh beneath.  The sight of the white skin seemed to madden it, and in its fierce desire for blood it drooped its square muzzle and buried its fangs in its victim’s shoulder.  Next moment there was a sound of running feet and of a club falling heavily.  Up reared the leopard with an angry snarl, up till it stood as high as the attacking Zulu.  At him it came, striking out savagely and tearing the black man as it had torn the white.  Again the kerry fell full on its jaws, and down it went backwards.  Before it could rise again, or rather as it was in the act of rising, the heavy knob-stick struck it once more, and with fearful force, this time as it chanced, full on the nape of the neck, and paralysing the brute.  It writhed and bit and twisted, throwing up the earth and leaves, while blow after blow was rained upon it, till at length with a convulsive struggle and a stifled roar it lay still—­the brains oozing from its shattered skull.

Hadden sat up, the blood running from his wounds.

“You have saved my life, Nahoon,” he said faintly, “and I thank you.”

“Do not thank me, Black Heart,” answered the Zulu, “it was the king’s word that I should keep you safely.  Still this tiger has been hardly dealt with, for certainly he has saved my life,” and lifting the Martini he unloaded the rifle.

At this juncture Hadden swooned away.

*****

Twenty-four hours had gone by when, after what seemed to him to be but a little time of troubled and dreamful sleep, through which he could hear voices without understanding what they said, and feel himself borne he knew not whither, Hadden awoke to find himself lying upon a kaross in a large and beautifully clean Kaffir hut with a bundle of furs for a pillow.  There was a bowl of milk at his side and tortured as he was by thirst, he tried to stretch out his arm to lift it to his lips, only to find to his astonishment that his hand fell back to his side like that of a dead man.  Looking round the hut impatiently, he found that there was nobody in it to assist him, so he did the only thing which remained for him to do—­he lay still.  He did not fall asleep, but his eyes closed, and a kind of gentle torpor crept over him, half obscuring his recovered senses.  Presently he heard a soft voice speaking; it seemed far away, but he could clearly distinguish the words.