They were his last words. Rachel aimed and pressed the trigger, the gun
exploded heavily in the mist; the Zulu leapt into the air and fell upon
his back, dead. The white man, Ishmael, rode to them, pulled up his horse
and sat still, staring. It was a strange picture in that lonely, silent
spot. The soldier so very still and dead, his face hidden by the shield
that had fallen across it; the tall, white girl, rigid as a statue, in
whose hand the gun still smoked, the delicate, fragile Kaffir maiden
kneeling on the veld, and looking at her wildly as though she were a
spirit, and the two horses, one with its ears pricked in curiosity, and
the other already cropping grass.
"My God! What have you done?" exclaimed Ishmael.
"Justice," answered Rachel.
"Then your blood be on your own head. I am not going to stop here to have
my throat cut."
"Don't," answered Rachel. "I have a better guardian than you, and will
look after my own blood."
To this speech the white man seemed to be able to find no answer. Turning
his horse he galloped off swearing, but not towards the camp, whereon the
other horse galloped after him, and presently they all vanished in the
mist, leaving the two women alone.
At this moment from the direction of the waggon they heard the sound of
shouting and of screams, which appeared to come from the valley between
them and it.
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