CHAPTER III

THE END OF THE HUNT

The prayer of the Bee notwithstanding, Philip Hadden slept ill that
night. He felt in the best of health, and his conscience was not
troubling him more than usual, but rest he could not. Whenever he closed
his eyes, his mind conjured up a picture of the grim witch-doctoress,
so strangely named the Bee, and the sound of her evil-omened words as
he had heard them that afternoon. He was neither a superstitious nor a
timid man, and any supernatural beliefs that might linger in his mind
were, to say the least of it, dormant. But do what he might, he could
not shake off a certain eerie sensation of fear, lest there should be
some grains of truth in the prophesyings of this hag. What if it were
a fact that he was near his death, and that the heart which beat so
strongly in his breast must soon be still for ever--no, he would not
think of it. This gloomy place, and the dreadful sight which he saw that
day, had upset his nerves. The domestic customs of these Zulus were not
pleasant, and for his part he was determined to be clear of them so soon
as he was able to escape the country.

In fact, if he could in any way manage it, it was his intention to make
a dash for the border on the following night. To do this with a good
prospect of success, however, it was necessary that he should kill a
buffalo, or some other head of game. Then, as he knew well, the hunters
with him would feast upon meat until they could scarcely stir, and that
would be his opportunity. Nahoon, however, might not succumb to this
temptation; therefore he must trust to luck to be rid of him. If it came
to the worst, he could put a bullet through him, which he considered