But, as they reached the house, any such hope quickly died. A horrible object met their gaze--the body of a man, a white man, stripped and frightfully hacked and gashed. Right in front of the door it lay, the position telling its own tale. The unfortunate man had been attacked by his treacherous murderers, as all unsuspecting he had stepped forth, probably to confer with them. "That's Tewson," pronounced Peters shortly. A groan drew their attention to Ancram, who was staring at the horrible sight with a kind of fell fascination. His gaze was livid, and his hands were working convulsively. There was a glare almost of mania in his eyes. "Buck up, Ancram," said Lamont, not unkindly. "You must pull yourself together, you know. This is the first, but I'm afraid not the last sight of the kind we shall see before we are through with this tangle. Here, have some of this," producing his flask. Peters and Lamont were looking at each other, and again the same thought was in both their minds. Here lay the poor remains of Tewson himself, but his household consisted of his wife, her sister, and three or four children. What lay behind that door? It had to be done. As the door was opened, both men instinctively started back, then, rallying, they entered. In less than a minute they returned to the open air, almost reeling, and from the faces of these two strong, resourceful, resolute men every vestige of colour had faded. They had looked upon bloodshed and death before, as we know, had grown inured to horrible sights; but that of white women and children, literally cut into pieces, had been reserved for them until now. "No, you'd better not see it, Ancram," warned Lamont, putting forth a restraining hand. "There's no necessity for you to. Peters, one of us must go in there again. The time's important--the time it occurred, you know. We might find some clue." Peters nodded, and they entered together. There was a clue. On a side-table was the beginning of a letter, which looked as if one of the wretched women had been interrupted while writing. It was spattered with blood. "It's dated the day before yesterday," said Lamont; "the day we were attacked. Good Lord! I wish when we set our trap then we had put enough stuff to blow every one of those Matabele devils to his own place, instead of a dozen or so." "Amen," said Peters. It never occurred to either of them that their wish had been very nearly fulfilled. "Well, we'd better get into Gandela as soon as we can and give the alarm. They won't laugh this time, unfortunately. After that I, for one, am going where I can shoot as many of these devils as it is possible to shoot." "Same here," said Peters. "No quarter, either." These two men, you see, were changed now. Far from cruel or merciless by disposition, they had looked upon a sight which should render them both, as similar sights did many another in the early days of that wholly unprepared-for outbreak. CHAPTER NINETEEN.