“Ah,” he went on, “it was a gallant fight that ye fought.  Knowest thou that, long-armed old baboon that thou art, thou hast crushed in the ribs of those two who are laid out there as though they were but as the shell on an egg?  And the young one, the lion, it was a beautiful stand that he made—­one against so many—­three did he slay outright, and that one there”—­and he pointed to a body that was still moving a little—­“will die anon, for his head is cracked across, and others of those who are bound are hurt.  It was a gallant fight, and thou and he have made a friend of me by it, for I love to see a well-fought fray.  But tell me, my son, the baboon—­and now I think of it thy face, too, is hairy, and altogether like a baboon’s—­how was it that ye slew those with a hole in them?—­Ye made a noise, they say, and slew them—­they fell down on the faces at the noise?”

I explained to him as well as I could, but very shortly—­for I was terribly wearied, and only persuaded to talk at all through fear of offending one so powerful if I refused to do so—­what were the properties of gunpowder, and he instantly suggested that I should illustrate what I said by operating on the person of one of the prisoners.  One, he said, never would be counted, and it would not only be very interesting to him, but would give me the opportunity of an instalment of revenge.  He was greatly astounded when I told him that it was not our custom to avenge ourselves in cold blood, and that we left vengeance to the law and a higher power, of which he knew nothing.  I added, however, that when I recovered I would take him out shooting with us, and he should kill an animal for himself, and at this he was as pleased as a child at the promise of a new toy.

Just then Leo opened his eyes beneath the stimulus of some brandy (of which we still had a little) that Job had poured down his throat, and our conversation came to an end.

After this we managed to get Leo, who was in a very poor way indeed, and only half conscious, safely off to bed, supported by Job and that brave girl Ustane, to whom, had I not been afraid that she might resent it, I would certainly have given a kiss for her splendid behaviour in saving my boy’s life at the risk of her own.  But Ustane was not the sort of young person with whom one would care to take liberties unless one were perfectly certain that they would not be misunderstood, so I repressed my inclinations.  Then, bruised and battered, but with a sense of safety in my breast to which I had for some days been a stranger, I crept off to my own little sepulchre, not forgetting before I laid down in it to thank Providence from the bottom of my heart that it was not a sepulchre indeed, as, save for a merciful combination of events that I can only attribute to its protection, it would certainly have been for me that night.  Few men have been nearer their end and yet escaped it than we were on that dreadful day.