hand.

"Ari-tsemaia! Hamba! Loop! Go!" whispered Peter Halket; using a word
from each African language he knew. But the black man still stood
motionless, looking at him as one paralysed.

"Hamba! Sucka! Go!" he whispered, motioning his hand.

In an instant a gleam of intelligence shot across the face; then a wild
transport. Without a word, without a sound, as the tiger leaps when the
wild dogs are on it, with one long, smooth spring, as though unwounded and
unhurt, he turned and disappeared into the grass. It closed behind him;
but as he went the twigs and leaves cracked under his tread.

The Captain threw back the door of his tent. "Who is there?" he cried.

Peter Halket stood below the tree with the knife in his hand.

The noise roused the whole camp: the men on guard came running; guns were
fired: and the half-sleeping men came rushing, grasping their weapons.
There was a sound of firing at the little tree; and the cry went round the
camp, "The Mashonas are releasing the spy!"

When the men got to the Captain's tent, they saw that the nigger was gone;
and Peter Halket was lying on his face at the foot of the tree; with his
head turned towards the Captain's door.

There was a wild confusion of voices. "How many were there?" "Where have
they gone to now?" "They've shot Peter Halket!"--"The Captain saw them do
it"--"Stand ready, they may come back any time!"