Volume 1, Chapter XIII.

THE AUTO DA FE.

With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had come among them to take the sorcerer's place in the tribe that the cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo's co-operation. Masheesh now entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the palmyra rope which yet bound the white men's hands as he did so.

Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, looking into each other's eyes, the soldier speaking first.

"The black scoundrel," at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking himself like a dog. "Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak to Masheesh--will you?"

Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time, then looking up into the speaker's face.

"The Amatonga must have blood," he said, slowly. "Shall it be the white man's? Masheesh can do nothing."

"Will the chief try?" asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the hopelessness of the case.

"But if you will not, at all events we will," said the missionary. "It is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point."

"Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead Amatonga?" asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.

"Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous, like an Amatonga?" asked Wyzinski in reply.

"How does the white man account for Sgalam's death?"

"The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been frustrated."

"Mozelkatse's vengeance would have found him out," interpolated the Matabele.

"True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut, and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo and Luji's persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must answer for it."

"So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?"

"No, Matabele, no," answered the missionary, "it was a potent poison which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death, Luji had nothing."

Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.

"It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that Luji by sorcery caused the chief's death."

"Let us try, at least," replied Hughes, as both took their way to the entrance of the hut.

All had been comparatively quiet, since the Amatonga chief had left the place, a council having been held outside to determine on the best mode of punishing the Hottentot sorcerer. The sun was shining brightly, and a light breeze waving the branches of a group of mashunga trees, under which the men of the tribe had assembled. Umhleswa had been speaking rapidly, and doubtless eloquently, to the circle of braves around him. Near by, stood the unfortunate Hottentot, closely guarded, and if it had not been a pitiful, it would have been a laughable sight, for, tied in his usual position, on the prisoner's shoulders, sat the baboon. Naturally ugly, the brute was rendered still more so from the effects of the gunpowder explosion, which had scorched its skin, and there it sat, peeping from side to side of Luji's head, moaning, grimacing, stroking the Hottentot's face, and showing his teeth to all who came near. The large tears were streaming down the captive's cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt with which they were begrimed.

The chief concluded his speech just as the two white men emerged into the open air, pointing as he did so to the crouching captive, and the whole band started up, shouting and yelling, to dash past Luji into the bush. One loud scream of anguish burst from the man's chest, for he had heard his fate, and knew that it was death by fire.

Rudely thrust back by the men who had been left to guard them, Wyzinski and the soldier were powerless, but felt their blood boil within them as they noted the preparations made. The savages seemed to be holding high festival in the bush and in the tall, parched-up reeds, and then one after another appeared bearing bundles of branches and inflammable grass, throwing them down only to return for more, and thus, laughing, singing, and yelling, they collected a large pile.

A mass of bare, splintered rock rose in the plain, and towards this Umhleswa and his subordinate chiefs took their way, while several of the half-maddened savages laid hold of the Hottentot, the rest dancing wildly around him. Shriek after shriek rose from the captive as he resisted, and the points of the assegais, urging him on in rear, drew blood, the baboon nearly strangling him in his fearful efforts to escape.

Turning, the poor fellow caught sight of his late masters, and as he held out his fettered hands, they marked the big tears of agony rolling down his yellow-black cheeks.

Again Hughes made an effort to escape.

"By heavens, they are going to kill Luji! Oh! for my rifle. At all events he shall not go alone," he shouted, as he dashed from the entrance of the hut, and was rudely repulsed by the Amatonga guard.

Wyzinski's eyes were closed, and his thin, finely-cut lips moving as if in prayer. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.

Two strong stakes had been driven into the ground against the smooth face of the rock, and the prisoner was now bound firmly to them, in the fashion of a spread eagle, while all round, in a semicircle, were piled heaps of dried reeds, branches, and grass, near enough to roast the man gradually, but not to burn at once, poor Luji's shrieks for mercy ringing out even above the joyous yells of the Amatongas. Two of the tribe were engaged in procuring a light by rubbing together pieces of dry wood, while leaning on his assegai, lazily contemplating the whole with an air of great satisfaction, stood Umhleswa, showing his filed teeth and grinning with delight. "And these are the men I thought so gentle, whom I believed incapable of bloodshed. Fiend, scoundrel, Umhleswa," shouted Hughes, in his excitement, once more rushing on the guards at the entrance, and being again roughly thrown back.

The missionary still prayed.

A bright, red glare shot up in the sunshine, as the air, heavily laden with the sweet scent of the mashunga and the acacia trees, fanned the burning branches; a cry of human agony and terror, mixed with loud yells of vengeance and of delight, rang out. Shriek after shriek followed, as the poor wretch felt the increasing heat, and the flame burned fiercer and more fiercely, while the horrible baboon, in his terror, dug his sharp nails into the Hottentot's face, the blood streaming, and the Amatongas fairly screaming with laughter.

More and more intense grew the fire, and, as the scorching heat became unendurable, the agony experienced by the baboon increased in intensity. This he revenged on the unfortunate man. The Amatongas seemed to revel in the horrible scene, as they filled the pure, afternoon air with their laughter. Throwing fresh wood on the blaze, they made the fire leap and roar, while they dashed sharp pieces of rock at the captive, cutting and bruising his flesh, but avoiding death, as, blinded with his own blood, and one eye torn from its socket by the mad efforts of the baboon, the unfortunate Hottentot now moaned feebly. Umhleswa stood by watching the scene, as he leaned on his long assegai, the ostrich feather floating over his head, and the panther skin round his waist, from time to time urging his men to further cruelties, or stirring the fire with the spearhead.

Fearfully excited, and unable longer to bear the sickening spectacle, the white men in desperation and rage threw themselves on the guard, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Not wishing to use their arms, and less powerful than they, it required all the superiority of their numbers to resist the shock, for they both fought like madmen, with hand and foot, only at last to be cast back, stunned and bleeding, into the hut.

Louder and louder grew the shrieks outside, madder and madder the dance, round the death-fire. The blaze had died away, and over the embers dashed the Amatongas, using their long knives, cutting strips out of the quivering flesh, but craftily avoiding vital parts, they threw them in the fire. The baboon was dead. A lump of rock had dashed out his brains, which were bespattered over the half-roasted Hottentot's face and breast, the shattered head and ungainly body dangling about a ghastly sight. The man himself hardly presented a vestige of the human form. One eye hanging out, his limbs smashed by the lumps of rock hurled at him, the blood pouring from his many wounds, and a long, feeble, continuous moaning coming from his fire-blistered lips. And now a fresh batch of reeds and boughs were thrown on the flagging fire, this time within the former circle. The breeze, laden with the perfume of the mashunga, fanned it into flame, and it leaped up high in the last rays of the setting sun, which was tipping the tops of the trees, and the far-away mountains of the Matopo, with a golden hue. The Kaffir's hair caught fire, and the horrible smell of the burning flesh overpowered the scent of the flowers Umhleswa stirred the blaze with his steel-headed assegai. It was the only merciful deed he had done, for the fire leaped up more quickly, and the stakes, burned through, gave way, the mutilated remains of what had been a human body falling heavily and helplessly forward.

Fresh reeds and branches were heaped on, the flame roared with fury, and the yells and shouts became louder. Once the mass of blazing wood moved, a charred hand was thrust forth, and then all was still. The fire had done its work, and the Amatongas seemed appeased. Noti slept beneath the shadow of the ruins of Sofala, the restless surf moaning over his grave. The lions had killed him, but Luji's ashes, reduced to fine dust, were blowing over the plains before the night breeze, when the moon shone forth over the sorcerer's hut and the smoke-begrimed rock.

The Amatonga nature had proved more relentless than the lions, the man more savage than the beast.