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CHAPTER XXII - I BENITA GIVES HER ANSWER
"Your answer, Benita," Robert said dreamily, for to him this thing
seemed a dream.
"Have I not given it, months ago? Oh, I remember, it was only in my
heart, not on my lips, when that blow fell on me! Then afterwards I
heard what you had done and I nearly died. I wished that I might die
to be with you, but I could not. I was too strong; now I understand
the reason. Well, it seems that we are both living, and whatever
happens, here is my answer, if it is worth anything to you. Once and
for all, I love you. I am not ashamed to say it, because very soon we
may be separated for the last time. But I cannot talk now, I have come
here to save my father."
"Where is he, Benita?"
"Dying in a cave up at the top of that fortress. I got down by a
secret way. Are the Matabele still here?"
"Very much so," he answered. "But something has happened. My guard
woke me an hour ago to say that a messenger had arrived from their
king, Lobengula, and now they are talking over the message. That is
how you came to get through, otherwise the sentries would have
assegaied you, the brutes," and he drew her to him and kissed her
passionately for the first time; then, as though ashamed of himself,
let her go.
"Have you anything to eat?" she asked. "I--I--am starving. I didn't
feel it before, but now----"
"Starving, you starving, while I--look, here is some cold meat which I
could not get down last night, and put by for the Kaffirs. Great
Heavens! that I should feed you with Kaffirs' leavings! But it is good
--eat it."
Benita took the stuff in her fingers and swallowed it greedily; she
who for days had lived on nothing but a little biscuit and biltong. It
tasted delicious to her--never had she eaten anything so good. And all
the while he watched her with glowing eyes.
"How can you look at me?" she said at length. "I must be horrible; I
have been living in the dark and crawling through mud. I trod upon a
crocodile!" and she shuddered.
"Whatever you are I never want to see you different," he answered
slowly. "To me you are most beautiful."
Even then, wreck as she was, the poor girl flushed, and there was a
mist in her eyes as she looked up and said:
"Thank you. I don't care now what happens to me, and what has happened
doesn't matter at all. But can we get away?"
"I don't know," he answered; "but I doubt it. Go and sit on the
waggon-box for a few minutes while I dress, and we will see."
Benita went. The mist was thinning now, and through it she saw a sight
at which her heart sank, for between her and the mount Bambatse
Matabele were pouring towards their camp on the river's edge. They
were cut off. A couple of minutes later Robert joined her, and as he
came she looked at him anxiously in the growing light. He seemed older
than when they had parted on the /Zanzibar/; changed, too, for now his
face was serious, and he had grown a beard; also, he appeared to limp.
"I am afraid there is an end," she said, pointing to the Matabele
below.
"Yes, it looks like it. But like you, I say, what does it matter now?"
and he took her hand in his, adding: "let us be happy while we can if
only for a few minutes. They will be here presently."
"What are you?" she asked. "A prisoner?"
"That's it. I was following you when they captured me; for I have been
here before and knew the way. They were going to kill me on general
principles, only it occurred to one of them who was more intelligent
than the rest that I, being a white man, might be able to show them
how to storm the place. Now I was sure that you were there, for I saw
you standing on that point, though they thought you were the Spirit of
Bambatse. So I wasn't anxious to help them, for then--you know what
happens when the Matabele are the stormers! But--as you still lived--I
wasn't anxious to die either. So I set them to work to dig a hole with
their assegais and sharp axes, through granite. They have completed
exactly twenty feet of it, and I reckon that there are one hundred and
forty to go. Last night they got tired of that tunnel and talked of
killing me again, unless I could show them a better plan. Now all the
fat is in the fire, and I don't know what is to happen. Hullo! here
they come. Hide in the waggon, quick!"
Benita obeyed, and from under cover of the tent where the Matabele
could not see her, watched and listened. The party that approached
consisted of a chief and about twenty men, who marched behind him as a
guard. Benita knew that chief. He was the captain Maduna, he of the
royal blood whose life she had saved. By his side was a Natal Zulu,
Robert Seymour's driver, who could speak English and acted as
interpreter.
"White man," said Maduna, "a message has reached us from our king.
Lobengula makes a great war and has need of us. He summons us back
from this petty fray, this fight against cowards who hide behind
walls, whom otherwise we would have killed, everyone, yes, if we sat
here till we grew old. So for this time we leave them alone."
Robert answered politely that he was glad to hear it, and wished them
a good journey.
"Wish yourself a good journey, white man," was the stern reply.
"Why? Do you desire that I should accompany you to Lobengula?"
"No, you go before us to the kraal of the Black One who is even
greater than the child of Moselikatse, to that king who is called
Death."
Robert crossed his arms and said: "Say on."
"White man, I promised you life if you would show us how to pierce or
climb those walls. But you have made fools of us--you have set us to
cut through rock with spears and axes. Yes, to hoe at rock as though
it were soil--you who with the wisdom of your people could have taught
us some better way. Therefore we must go back to our king disgraced,
having failed in his service, and therefore you who have mocked us
shall die. Come down now, that we may kill you quietly, and learn
whether or no you are a brave man."
Then it was, while her lover's hand was moving towards the pistol
hidden beneath his coat, that Benita, with a quick movement, emerged
from the waggon in which she crouched, and stood up at his side upon
the driving box.
"/Ow!/" said the Captain. "It is the White Maiden. Now how came she
here? Surely this is great magic. Can a woman fly like a bird?" and
they stared at her amazed.
"What does it matter how I came, chief Maduna?" she answered in Zulu.
"Yet I will tell you why I came. It was to save you from dipping your
spear in the innocent blood, and bringing on your head the curse of
the innocent blood. Answer me now. Who gave you and your brother
yonder your lives within that wall when the Makalanga would have torn
you limb from limb, as hyenas tear a buck? Was it I or another?"
"Inkosi-kaas--Chieftainess," replied the great Captain, raising his
broad spear in salute. "It was you and no other."
"And what did you promise me then, Prince Maduna?"
"Maiden of high birth, I promised you your life and your goods, should
you ever fall into my power."
"Does a leader of the Amandabele, one of the royal blood, lie like a
Mashona or a Makalanga slave? Does he do worse--tell half the truth
only, like a cheat who buys and keeps back half the price?" she asked
contemptuously. "Maduna, you promised me not one life, but two, two
lives and the goods that belong to both. Ask of your brother there,
who was witness of the words."
"Great Heavens!" muttered Robert Seymour to himself, as he looked at
Benita standing with outstretched hand and flashing eyes. "Who would
have thought that a starved woman could play such a part with death on
the hazard?"
"It is as this daughter of white chiefs says," answered the man to
whom she had appealed. "When she freed us from the fangs of those
dogs, you promised her two lives, my brother, one for yours and one
for mine."
"Hear him," went on Benita. "He promised me two lives, and how did
this prince of the royal blood keep his promise? When I and the old
man, my father, rode hence in peace, he loosed his spears upon us; he
hunted us. Yet it was the hunters who fell into the trap, not the
hunted."
"Maiden," replied Maduna, in a shamed voice, "that was your fault, not
mine. If you had appealed to me I would have let you go. But you
killed my sentry, and then the chase began, and ere I knew who you
were my runners were out of call."
"Little time had I to ask your mercy; but so be it," said Benita. "I
accept your word, and I forgive you that offence. Now fulfil your
oath. Begone and leave us in peace."
Still Maduna hesitated.
"I must make report to the king," he said. "What is this white man to
you that I should spare him? I give you your life and your father's
life, not that of this white man who has tricked us. If he were your
father, or your brother, it would be otherwise. But he is a stranger,
and belongs to me, not to you."
"Maduna," she asked, "do women such as I am share the waggon of a
stranger? This man is more to me than father or brother. He is my
husband, and I claim his life."
"/Ow!/" said the spokesman of the audience, "we understand now. She is
his wife, and has a right to him. If she were not his wife she would
not be in his waggon. It is plain that she speaks the truth, though
how she came here we do not know, unless, as we think, she is a
witch," and he smiled at his own cleverness.
"Inkosi-kaas," said Maduna, "you have persuaded me. I give you the
life of that white fox, your husband, and I hope that he will not
trick you as he has tricked us, and set you to hoe rock instead of
soil," and he looked at Robert wrathfully. "I give him to you and all
his belongings. Now, is there anything else that you would ask?"
"Yes," replied Benita coolly, "you have many oxen there which you took
from the other Makalanga. Mine are eaten and I need cattle to draw my
waggon. I ask a present of twenty of them, and," she added by an
afterthought, "two cows with young calves, for my father is sick
yonder, and must have milk."
"Oh! give them to her. Give them to her," said Maduna, with a tragic
gesture that in any other circumstances would have made Benita laugh.
"Give them to her and see that they are good ones, before she asks our
shields and spears also--for after all she saved my life."
So men departed to fetch those cows and oxen, which presently were
driven in.
While this talk was in progress the great impi of the Matabele was
massing for the march, on the flat ground a little to the right of
them. Now they began to come past in companies, preceded by the lads
who carried the mats and cooking-pots and drove the captured sheep and
cattle. By this time the story of Benita, the witch-woman whom they
could not kill, and who had mysteriously flown from the top of the
peak into their prisoner's waggon, had spread among them. They knew
also that it was she who had saved their general from the Makalanga,
and those who had heard her admired the wit and courage with which she
had pleaded and won her cause. Therefore, as they marched past in
their companies, singing a song of abuse and defiance of the Makalanga
who peered at them from the top of the wall, they lifted their great
spears in salutation to Benita standing upon the waggon-box.
Indeed, they were a wondrous and imposing spectacle, such a one as few
white women have ever seen.
At length all were gone except Maduna and a body-guard of two hundred
men. He walked to the front of the waggon and addressed Robert
Seymour.
"Listen, you fox who set us to hoe granite," he said indignantly. "You
have outwitted us this time, but if ever I meet you again, then you
die. Now I have given you your life, but," he added, almost
pleadingly, "if you are really brave as white men are said to be, will
you not come down and fight me man to man for honour's sake?"
"I think not," answered Robert, when he understood this challenge,
"for what chance should I have against so brave a warrior? Also this
lady--my wife--needs my help on her journey home."
Maduna turned from him contemptuously to Benita.
"I go," he said, "and fear not; you will meet no Matabele on that
journey. Have you more words for me, O Beautiful One, with a tongue of
oil and a wit that cuts like steel?"
"Yes," answered Benita. "You have dealt well with me, and in reward I
give you of my good luck. Bear this message to your king from the
White Witch of Bambatse, for I am she and no other. That he leave
these Makalanga, my servants, to dwell unharmed in their ancient home,
and that he lift no spear against the White Men, lest that evil which
the Molimo foretold to you, should fall upon him."
"Ah!" said Maduna, "now I understand how you flew from the mountain
top into this man's waggon. You are not a white woman, you are the
ancient Witch of Bambatse herself. You have said it, and with such it
is not well to war. Great lady of Magic, Spirit from of old, I salute
you, and I thank you for your gifts of life and fortune. Farewell."
Then he, too, stalked away at the head of his guard, so that
presently, save for the three Zulu servants and the herd of cattle,
Robert and Benita were left utterly alone.
Now, her part played and the victory won, Benita burst into tears and
fell upon her lover's breast.
Presently she remembered, and freed herself from his arms.
"I am a selfish wretch," she said. "How dare I be so happy when my
father is dead or dying? We must go at once."
"Go where?" asked the bewildered Robert.
"To the top of the mountain, of course, whence I came. Oh! please
don't stop to question me, I'll tell you as we walk. Stay," and she
called to the Zulu driver, who with an air of utter amazement was
engaged in milking one of the gift cows, to fill two bottles with the
milk.
"Had we not better shout to the Makalanga to let us in?" suggested
Robert, while this was being done, and Benita wrapped some cooked meat
in a cloth.
"No, no. They will think I am what I said I was--the Witch of
Bambatse, whose appearance heralds misfortune, and fear a trap.
Besides, we could not climb the top wall. You must follow my road, and
if you can trust them, bring two of those men with you with lanterns.
The lad can stop to herd the cattle."
Three minutes later, followed by the two Zulus, they were walking--or
rather, running--along the banks of the Zambesi.
"Why do you not come quicker?" she asked impatiently. "Oh, I beg your
pardon, you are lame. Robert, what made you lame, and oh! why are you
not dead, as they all swore you were, you, you--hero, for I know that
part of the story?"
"For a very simple reason, Benita: because I didn't die. When that
Kaffir took the watch from me I was insensible, that's all. The sun
brought me to life afterwards. Then some natives turned up, good
people in their way, although I could not understand a word they said.
They made a stretcher of boughs and carried me for some miles to their
kraal inland. It hurt awfully, for my thigh was broken, but I arrived
at last. There a Kaffir doctor set my leg in his own fashion; it has
left it an inch shorter than the other, but that's better than
nothing.
"In that place I lay for two solid months, for there was no white man
within a hundred miles, and if there had been I could not have
communicated with him. Afterwards I spent another month limping up
towards Natal, until I could buy a horse. The rest is very short.
Hearing of my reported death, I came as fast as I could to your
father's farm, Rooi Krantz, where I learned from the old vrouw Sally
that you had taken to treasure-hunting, the same treasure that I told
you of on the /Zanzibar/.
"So I followed your spoor, met the servants whom you had sent back,
who told me all about you, and in due course, after many adventures,
as they say in a book, walked into the camp of our friends, the
Matabele.
"They were going to kill me at once, when suddenly you appeared upon
that point of rock, glittering like--like the angel of the dawn. I
knew that it must be you, for I had found out about your attempted
escape, and how you were hunted back to this place. But the Matabele
all thought that it was the Spirit of Bambatse, who has a great
reputation in these parts. Well, that took off their attention, and
afterwards, as I told you, it occurred to them that I might be an
engineer. You know the rest, don't you?"
"Yes," answered Benita softly. "I know the rest."
Then they plunged into the reeds and were obliged to stop talking,
since they must walk in single file. Presently Benita looked up and
saw that she was under the thorn which grew in the cleft of the rock.
Also, with some trouble she found the bunch of reeds that she had bent
down, to mark the inconspicuous hole through which she had crept, and
by it her lantern. It seemed weeks since she had left it there.
"Now," she said, "light your candles, and if you see a crocodile,
please shoot."
Content of CHAPTER XXII - I BENITA GIVES HER ANSWER [H. Rider Haggard's novel: Benita]
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