Hadden looked at the stream; it was in flood.  He could not swim it, so followed by the evil laugh of the prophetess, he sped towards the forest.  After him came Nahoon, his tongue hanging from his jaws like the tongue of a wolf.

Now he was in the shadow of the forest, but still he sped on following the course of the river, till at length his breath failed, and he halted on the further side of a little glade, beyond which a great tree grew.  Nahoon was more than a spear’s throw behind him; therefore he had time to draw his pistol and make ready.

“Halt, Nahoon,” he cried, as once before he had cried; “I would speak with you.”

The Zulu heard his voice, and obeyed.

“Listen,” said Hadden.  “We have run a long race and fought a long fight, you and I, and we are still alive both of us.  Very soon, if you come on, one of us must be dead, and it will be you, Nahoon, for I am armed and as you know I can shoot straight.  What do you say?”

Nahoon made no answer, but stood still at the edge of the glade, his wild and glowering eyes fixed on the white man’s face and his breath coming in short gasps.

“Will you let me go, if I let you go?” Hadden asked once more.  “I know why you hate me, but the past cannot be undone, nor can the dead be brought to earth again.”

Still Nahoon made no answer, and his silence seemed more fateful and more crushing than any speech; no spoken accusation would have been so terrible in Hadden’s ear.  He made no answer, but lifting his assegai he stalked grimly toward his foe.

When he was within five paces Hadden covered him and fired.  Nahoon sprang aside, but the bullet struck him somewhere, for his right arm dropped, and the stabbing spear that he held was jerked from it harmlessly over the white man’s head.  But still making no sound, the Zulu came on and gripped him by the throat with his left hand.  For a space they struggled terribly, swaying to and fro, but Hadden was unhurt and fought with the fury of despair, while Nahoon had been twice wounded, and there remained to him but one sound arm wherewith to strike.  Presently forced to earth by the white man’s iron strength, the soldier was down, nor could he rise again.

“Now we will make an end,” muttered Hadden savagely, and he turned to seek the assegai, then staggered slowly back with starting eyes and reeling gait.  For there before him, still clad in her white robe, a spear in her hand, stood the spirit of Nanea!

“Think of it,” he said to himself, dimly remembering the words of the inyanga, “when you stand face to face with the ghost of the dead in the Home of the Dead.”

There was a cry and a flash of steel; the broad spear leapt towards him to bury itself in his breast.  He swayed, he fell, and presently Black Heart clasped that great reward which the word of the Bee had promised Him.

*****

“Nahoon!  Nahoon!” murmured a soft voice, “awake, it is no ghost, but I—­Nanea—­I, your living wife, to whom my Ehlose[*] has given it me to save you.”