The Sign of the Spider

  CHAPTER XV.

  AN AWAKENING.

  Ten or a dozen tall savages were advancing through the somewhat sparsescrub. Yielding to a first impulse of self-preservation, Laurence, quickas thought, stepped behind the stem of the tree-fern. Then he peeredforth.

  His first glance, keen and quick, took in every detail. His assailantswere fine warrior-like men, ferocious looking, in great crested headgearof plumes. Their bodies were adorned with cow-hair circlets, but, savefor a short kilt of cat's-tails and hide, they were quite unclad. Theycarried large shields of the Zulu pattern, and a sheaf of gleamingspears--some light, others heavy and strong with the blade like acutlass.

  Who, what could they be? he wondered. They were too fine and stately ofaspect--with their lofty, commanding brows, and clear, full glance--tobelong to any of the tribes around. They were not Wangoni--they wore toostriking a look to come of even that fine race. Who could they be?

  His conjectures on that head, rapid as they were, ceased abruptly, for aperfect volley of spears came whizzing about him, several burying theirheads deep within the stem of the tree-fern. Well indeed for him thathe had so rapidly placed even that slight rampart between himself andhis enemies.

  Deeming parley better than fight, under the circumstances, Laurencebegan quickly upon them in a mixture of Swahili and Zulu, declaring thathe could be no enemy to them or to their race. But a loud mocking laughdrowned his words; and, seeing that the savages had suddenly halfcrouched behind their shields for a charge, his quick, resourceful braingrasped the situation at once. A puff of smoke, a jet of flame frombehind the tree-fern. One of the warriors fell forward on his shield,beating the earth with his great limbs in the throes of death.

  They had hardly reckoned upon this. Crouching low, now they glide awayamong the scrub, keeping well within cover. But that solitary,determined man, flattened there against the tree-fern, draws no hopefrom this. Their manoeuvre is a simple one enough. They are going toenfilade the position. Surrounded on all sides, and by such foes asthese, where will he be? for he has no cover.

  But in Laurence Stanninghame's stern eyes there is a lurid battle-glow,a very demon light. His enemies will have his life, but they willpurchase it at a long price. A dead silence now reigns, and through ithe can hear the stealthy rustle made by his foes in their efforts tosurround him. Were he in the comparative security of cover, or behind arampart of any sort, he might hope, by a superhuman effort of quickfiring, to hold them back. As it is, he dare not move from behind histree, suspecting an intention to draw him thence.

  The sun flames blood-red upon the lagoon and upon a flight offlamingoes winnowing above the mirror-like surface, and, as though thesituation were not deadly and desperate enough, the shimmer of light andwater has, even in that brief glance, brought a spot in front of hiseyes, at the moment when, if ever, his sight should be at its clearestand quickest. The odds against him are indeed terrible. He can hardlyhope to come through; yet to his assailants it well may prove thedearest victory they have ever won.

  A dark body, creeping among the scrub--just a glimpse and nothing more.His piece is at his shoulder, and the trigger is pressed. He has notmissed--of that he is sure. But the echoes of his shot are swallowed up,drowned in a hundred other echoes reverberating upon the dim silence ofthe scrub.

  Echoes? No. The screech and tear of missiles very near to his own head,the smoke, the jets of flame from half a hundred different points--allthis is sufficient to show that these are no echoes. His own people havecome up. He is rescued, but only just in the nick of time.

  "Look out," he shouts in stentorian tones. "Don't fire this way.Hazon--Holmes, I'm here! Keep the fools in hand. They are blazing atme."

  But the crash of the volley drowns his voice, and the scrub is alivewith swarming natives armed with firelocks of every description. Yet,above the volley and the savage shouts, Laurence can hear the hoarse,barking yell, can descry the forms of his late enemies--such as are leftof them--as they flee, leaping and bounding, zigzagging with incrediblevelocity and address, to avoid the hail of bullets which is poured afterthem.

  He can realize something more--something which sends through his wholebeing a cold shudder of dismay and despair. Not his own people are theseotherwise so opportune arrivals. Not his own people, but--theinhabitants of the villages his own people are on their way toraid--fierce and savage cannibals by habit, but with physique which willfurnish excellent slaves. He has literally fallen from the frying-paninto the fire.

  How he curses his raw folly in making his presence known! But for thishe might have slipped away unnoticed during the scrimmage. Now they comecrowding up, brandishing their weapons and yelling hideously. Althoughinferior both in aspect and stature to those they have just defeated,these barbarians are formidable enough; terror-striking their wildlyferocious mien. Many of them, too, have filed teeth, which imparts totheir hideous countenances the most fiend-like appearance.

  Is it that in the apparently fearless attitude, the stern, evencommanding glance of this solitary white man, there is something thatoverawes them? It may be so, for they stop short in their hostiledemonstrations and commence a parley. Yet not altogether does LaurenceStanninghame feel relieved, for a sudden thought surges through hisbrain which causes a shade of paleness to sweep over his firm, bronzedcountenance. What if this were but a scheme to get him into their power?What if he were not suffered to die fighting, to fall into their handsalive? Why, then, his fate was certain--certain and inexpressiblyhorrible. He would be butchered like a calf--butchered and eaten--bythese repulsive wretches. Such would be his end. Now, however, to makethe best of the situation!

  But little can he make of their tongue. Then he tries them in Swahili.Ah! several of them have a smattering of that. They have come to his aidat a critical moment, he puts it--he is willing therefore to call themfriends. Yet it was a pity they had. He had already killed two of hisassailants and was prepared to kill them all, one after another. It wasonly a question of time. After all, if anything, the new arrivals hadrather spoiled his sport.

  These stared. The tone was one of patronage, of condescension. Thiswhite man was but one; he was alone, and in their power, yet he spoke tothem as a great chief might speak. Yet, was he but one? Was he alone orwere many others not far off? Perceptibly their own replies took on arespectful air.

  The while, Laurence kept every sense on the alert, indeed even to itsuttermost tension. Was this parley designed to keep him preoccupiedwhile others stole up treacherously to strike him down from behind? Toguard against this idea he stepped boldly forth from the tree-fern andadvanced towards the half-threatening crowd.

  "Where are those we have slain?" he said. "Let us examine them."

  "Yonder," answered some in a wandering tone, while others on theoutskirts of the crowd scowled and muttered.

  Leisurely, and now moving actually among these people, did Laurence fareforth to look upon the bodies of his late assailants. The thoroughlybold and fearless line he had adopted had told, as he was all but sureit would. These wild barbarians, armed to the teeth, had only to stretchforth a hand and slay him, yet somehow they refrained.

  The slain warriors were lying as they fell, and even in death Laurencecould not but admire their noble proportions, and the set and martialexpression of their countenances. Six lay dead, while another, sorelywounded, was promptly beheaded by the new arrivals. These, their savageinstincts all afire, set to work to hack the heads off each corpse;then, tying grass ropes around the ankles, the trunks were dragged awayto the village.

  To the latter now they invited Laurence. To hesitate might be an act ofweakness sufficient to cause his slaughter. To acquiesce, on the otherhand, was it not an act of unexampled foolhardiness thus to placehimself more absolutely within the power of these savage cannibals? Hispolicy of boldness had availed so far; it would not do to break down atthe last moment. So he accepted without a shade of hesitation.

  "How is your tribe named?" he asked, as they proceeded along.

&n
bsp; "Wajalu," replied the man who had done chief spokesman, rather agood-looking native, with almost a Zulu cast of countenance.

  "And the head man of yonder village, who is he?"

  "I am he. I--Mgara," was the reply, with a satisfied smile.

  "And those we have slain, they seemed fine fighters. Of what race werethey?"

  "Ba-gcatya."

  Laurence looked grave, but said nothing. Strange rumours, mysterious andvague, had reached him already--rumours relating to an immenselypowerful tribe inhabiting the dark and unexplored country away to thenorth, whose raids were extending more and more, whose wrath fell alikeupon all--upon Arab slave-hunter and the prey sought by the latter--aZulu-speaking tribe said to have taken its origin in some hardlyrecorded exodus in the days of Tshaka--Zulu alike in its habits andcustoms, and in the despotism of its ruler. This nation was known as theAbagcatya or Ba-gcatya, "The People of the Spider." Hazon, too, believedin its existence, and Hazon was a first-class authority on suchsubjects. And now the warriors who had attacked him, and upon whom thetables were so strangely turned, were Zulu in aspect, and bore Zulushields. The thing began to look serious. What if that handful ofwarriors was the outpost of a huge _impi_? Would not the vengeance ofthe latter be fearful and complete?

  And, indeed, time was when Laurence Stanninghame's blood would haveboiled with rage and disgust at the indignities offered to the remainsof these noble-looking warriors. The trunks dragged along by the heelsseemed nothing now but a bleeding mass. The heads, too, stuck upon spearpoints, were borne aloft above the rabble. To them were all sorts ofmockeries addressed.

  Now, however, it was different. The hardening process had been, ifanything, all too complete. A man had his hands full even if occupiedsolely in taking care of himself--this had become the sum total of hiscreed.

  As they drew near the village, the Wajalu set up the most hideouslydiscordant war-song he had ever heard in his life. They were met in thegate by a crowd of women howling and blowing horns, and otherwise addingto the horrific tumult. These, on beholding the stranger, imagined him aprisoner, and began clamouring for his death, pointing to thebloodstained place of slaughter where such were wont to be immolated.

  And then once more, hearing the shout of demoniacal laughter which arosefrom some of the fighting men, noting a ferociously sardonic grin uponnot a few faces, Laurence felt his former misgivings all return.Accustomed as he was to perilous situations, to horrifying sights, thestrain upon his nerves was becoming painfully intense. Fortunate,indeed, for him that those nerves were now hardened to the coldconsistency of cast steel by almost daily trial.

  "Men of the Wajalu," he began, in a decisive, commanding voice, "well isit for all here that I am among you this day as a friend and guest, for,but for that, this village was doomed. You know not who I am, but youshall know in time. Then you will know that but for my presence hereto-day the spear and the slave-yoke would have been your portion, thatof your village the flames. Now I give you your lives."

  The words, hurriedly rendered to those who could not understand by thosewho could, perhaps more the haughty indifference of his tone, hisbearing, his appearance in general, hard and determined, overawed thecrowd. No further voice was raised against him. Their advances ofhospitality became even profuse.

  He was shown to the best hut. But before he entered it he could notavoid seeing the bodies of his late assailants in process ofdismemberment as though they had been slaughtered cattle, and, inured ashe was to horrible and sickening sights, never had he been conscious ofso overpowering a feeling of repulsion as now. The cannibal atrocitiesof these human beasts, the glowering heads stuck all over thestockade,--the latest addition thereto being those of the slainBa-gcatya,--the all-pervading influence of death brooding over thisdemoniacal haunt, even as the ever-present circlings of carrion birdshigh in mid-air--all this weighed upon his mind until he could haveblown out his own brains for sheer horror and loathing.

  But upon this dark, enshrouding shadow, piercing, partly dispelling it,came a ray of searching light--sweet, golden, penetrating. The vision ofhis midday slumbers--Lilith. But a few hours had gone by since thatdream, and within them he had fought fiercely for his life; and now, inthis hell-haunt, the sweet entrancement of it came back to charm away,as with a hallowed spell, the black horrors that hung over his soul asthough on vulture wing.

  Presently Mgara entered, followed by people bearing food--cookedgoat-flesh and millet and plantains. From the smoking meat Laurencerecoiled with a loathing he could hardly repress. It was too suggestiveof the foul and fearful feast proceeding outside; and even when thechief, with a furtive half-smile, assured him he might safely partake ofit, yet he could not touch it, contenting himself with the other fare,cereal and vegetable.

  After some further talk Mgara withdrew, and Laurence, left alone, gavehis meditations the rein once more. Never had he loathed the sinisteroccupation upon which he was embarked as he did now, possibly becausethe term of the undertaking was nearing its end. "I predict you willcome back with what you want," Lilith had said, and her words had beenfully verified. He had gained riches--even beyond his wildest dreams,but how he had gained them--trafficking in human flesh and blood, yea,even human life--she should never know. It seemed to him as though hewere already returning with that which should place all the world at hisfeet.

  But for once he seemed to forget that he had not yet returned--not yet.And as the drums and yelling of the barbarous orgy outside graduallysank into the silence of night, even that, strange to say, failed toremind him.