The Ruined Cities of Zululand Part 41

"No, old friend. No, it must not be," he replied, his thin lips quivering as he spoke. "The work we have begun together, I will finish if I live. The 'Ruined Cities of Zulu Land' exist, and the dangers we have gone through have but opened out the way. Noti's life lost on the banks of the Golden River, Luji's sacrificed to save ours on the plains of Manica, must not have been given in vain."

A deep silence ensued as Isabel, leaning on her husband's arm, looked pensively over the sea. The sound of the steam-whistle was heard, warning the loiterers on the beach that their time was short.

"I go from this to depose on oath as to our discoveries," continued the enthusiastic speaker. "I am sure of a welcome at Chantilly, and that shall be my starting point."

"Well, well," returned Hughes, sorrowfully, "you won't forget the presents for Masheesh. How he wanted to come with us, poor fellow."

"There goes a gun from the 'Saxon,' sir," said the c.o.xswain in charge of the boat, as the report of a light piece came to their ears, and a wisp of white smoke rose curling over the point.

"Good-bye, Wyzinski, good-bye," said Hughes, as he grasped the other's hand. "May G.o.d bless you! And remember, while we have a home it's yours. You must eventually tire of your wanderings."

"Shall I?" returned the other, as a slight smile curled his lip, though the unbidden tears were standing in his eyes, kept back only by his iron will "Hark my words: you will tire first of a life of inaction." And the missionary touched Isabel's cheek with his lips as he handed her into the boat.

One more grasp of the hand as the two men stood looking into each other's eyes; one more deep "good-bye!" and Hughes sat by her side.

"Give way, my lads! give way, with a will!" exclaimed the c.o.xswain, as the sound of a second gun came booming over the point.

"You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes," shouted the missionary, as the boat shot away from land, "and when you do so, think of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, and your old comrade working alone."

A wave of the hand came back for all reply, as Hughes pa.s.sed his arm round Isabel's slender waist.

With the calm serenity which so characterised the man, the missionary turned, and, instead of remaining to watch the boat, walked firmly though slowly away, never once faltering. The tears were still standing in his eyes, but no one marked them, as he moved with his firm springy step through the busy streets of Durban. The smoke of the mail steamer "Saxon" was yet to be seen, a black inky spot on the horizon, as he took his way from the town, bound for the banks of the Nonoti. He reached Chantilly in safety, and pa.s.sed on thence, after a short halt, to the station at Santa Lucia Bay, there to organise a party destined to win once more from the forest growth the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land.

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

THE Ma.s.sACRES OF CAWNPORE.

Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the Lion's Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as the s.h.i.+p stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering, rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done by the pa.s.senger is to leave the s.h.i.+p to pitch and roll at her anchors until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse, as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.

Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful.

Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views; others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half way, and where the click of the billiard b.a.l.l.s never seems to cease night or day.

Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pa.s.s on his left hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds, sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white facade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly hidden by the cl.u.s.tering creepers and vines.

Bright flowers and green plots of gra.s.s, carefully mowed and watered, speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester, who, being absent in England was glad to let it.

It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.

"Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?" asked Isabel, who, seated on a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes lying on the gra.s.s at her feet, an open book near.

"Well, no," answered he, yawning; "but I don't see why we should wait the reply to all that ma.s.s of papers sent to Portugal."

"I don't speak English well enough yet," said Isabel, laughing; but this was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three months' residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was fully evident.

"We had trouble enough with that box of papers," said Hughes, musing; "and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father's property at stake, I suppose we must submit."

"Submit," replied Isabel, brightly; "it's no very hard task, methinks.

Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?"

"Not the ride, certainly; I'm not equal to the exertion," replied the soldier.

Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary's parting words came back to him.

"You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the 'Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,' and your old comrade working alone."

The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.

"Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees."

"I don't exactly remember where I left off, Isabel," replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. "A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I'll try. Lend me that cus.h.i.+on."

Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.

"Well, Enrico,--and my tale?" asked Isabel, looking up.

"Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it happened there what always happens. They melted away like snow before the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the house--chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.

"Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.

"Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith."

"And Lucy?" asked Isabel; "your tale is worth nothing without her."

"Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn, inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they pa.s.sed to us."

"And the old priest--what was Father Guy's fate, Enrico? Do you know?"

"Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen's huts of St Tudno's time; but few who go there now either know of or care for the curious deeds of the past.

"The 'Wyvern,' the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.

"It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there, so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A ma.s.s of rock has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.

"Days pa.s.sed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of Creuddyn."

"You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?"

"And so I do," replied Hughes, warmly. "I was born among its fine old mountains, and I love its old-fas.h.i.+oned, brave, honest-hearted race; but to continue. Days had pa.s.sed when some fishermen at sea noticed a spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.

"They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale, but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the flanks of the mountain, long the abode of the foxes.

"They searched, and found a narrow, dangerous path, which yet exists.

The Gloddaeth keepers know it, and know too where to track Reynard when their game disappears. The priest was found half starved, and fast asleep there.

"The news spread, the fanatic population was soon roused. The country people flocked from far and near.

"'Let the idolater see his chapel,' they roared, as the emaciated, careworn man was dragged into the centre of the green field, stretching before the house of Penrhyn to the sea. The aged priest was weak with hunger, and worn with suffering. Before him seethed a rude mob of infuriated peasants, and death was certain. This moved him not, but the chapel, despoiled, ruined, and half burned, caused the tears to roll down his thin cheeks.

"'Ha!' shouted a thick-set peasant, 'ye doomed us all to death, let us see how ye meet your own;' and he hurled a sharp stone at the feeble old man.