“He says he smells blood,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “I only trust he is not right. I am getting very fearful about my little girl. She must have gone far, or she would be home by now. It is half-past three o’clock.”
I pointed out that she had taken food with her, and very likely would not in the ordinary course of events return till nightfall; but I myself felt very anxious, and fear that my anxiety betrayed itself.
Shortly after this, the people whom Mr. Mackenzie had sent out to search for Flossie returned, stating that they had followed the spoor of the donkey for a couple of miles and had then lost it on some stony ground, nor could they discover it again. They had, however, scoured the country far and wide, but without success.
After this the afternoon wore drearily on, and towards evening, there still being no signs of Flossie, our anxiety grew very keen. As for the poor mother, she was quite prostrated by her fears, and no wonder, but the father kept his head wonderfully well. Everything that could be done was done; people were sent out in all directions, shots were fired, and a continuous outlook kept from the great tree, but without avail.
And then at last it grew dark, and still no sign of fair-haired little Flossie.
At eight o’clock we had supper. It was but a sorrowful meal, and Mrs. Mackenzie did not appear at it. We three also were very silent, for in addition to our natural anxiety as to the fate of the child, we were weighed down by the sense that we had brought this trouble on the head of our kind host. When supper was nearly at an end I made an excuse to leave the table. I wanted to get outside and think the situation over. I went on to the veranda and, having lit my pipe, sat down on a seat about a dozen feet from the right-hand end of the structure, which was, as the reader may remember, exactly opposite one of the narrow doors of the protecting wall that enclosed the house and flower garden. I had been sitting there perhaps six or seven minutes when I thought I heard the door move. I looked in that direction and I listened, but, being unable to make out anything, concluded that I must have been mistaken. It was a darkish night, the moon not having yet risen.
Another minute passed, when suddenly something round fell with a soft but heavy thud upon the stone flooring of the veranda, and came bounding and rolling along past me. For a moment I did not rise, but sat wondering what it could be. Finally, I concluded it must have been an animal. Just then, however, another idea struck me, and I got up quick enough. The thing lay quite still a few feet beyond me. I put down my hand towards it and it did not move: clearly it was not an animal. My hand touched it. It was soft and warm and heavy. Hurriedly I lifted it and held it up against the faint starlight.
It was a newly severed human head!
I am an old hand and not easily upset, but I own that that ghastly sight made me feel sick. How had the thing come there? Whose was it? I put it down and ran to the little doorway. I could see nothing, hear nobody. I was about to go out into the darkness beyond, but remembering that to do so was to expose myself to the risk of being stabbed, I drew back, shut the door, and bolted it. Then I returned to the veranda, and in as careless a voice as I could command called Curtis. I fear, however, that my tones must have betrayed me, for not only Sir Henry but also Good and Mackenzie rose from the table and came hurrying out.
“What is it?” said the clergyman, anxiously.
Then I had to tell them.
Mr. Mackenzie turned pale as death under his red skin. We were standing opposite the hall door, and there was a light in it so that I could see. He snatched the head up by the hair and held it against the light.
“It is the head of one of the men who accompanied Flossie,” he said with a gasp. “Thank God it is not hers!”
We all stood and stared at each other aghast. What was to be done?
Just then there was a knocking at the door that I had bolted, and a voice cried, “Open, my father, open!”
The door was unlocked, and in sped a terrified man. He was one of the spies who had been sent out.
“My father,” he cried, “the Masai are on us! A great body of them have passed round the hill and are moving towards the old stone kraal down by the little stream. My father, make strong thy heart! In the midst of them I saw the white ass, and on it sat the Water-lily.” (Flossie). “An Elmoran” (young warrior) “led the ass, and by its side walked the nurse weeping. The men who went with her in the morning I saw not.”
“Was the child alive?” asked Mr. Mackenzie, hoarsely.
“She was white as the snow, but well, my father. They passed quite close to me, and looking up from where I lay hid I saw her face against the sky.”
“God help her and us!” groaned the clergyman.
“How many are there of them?” I asked.
“More than two hundred—two hundred and half a hundred.”
Once more we looked one on the other. What was to be done? Just then there rose a loud, insistent cry outside the wall.
“Open the door, white man! open the door! A herald—a herald to speak with thee.” Thus cried
