Suddenly he awoke. The same instinct, however, which had warned him against going to sleep warned him now against opening his eyes. Through the merest crack between their lids he looked forth, and behold, some one was bending over him, but not so much as to conceal the haft of a short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai. There was not much time to decide. Cool now, as ever, in the face of ordinary and material danger, Blachland realised that his hands were imprisoned in his blanket, and that before he could free them, the blade of the savage would transfix his heart. He heaved a sigh that was partly a snore--and made a movement as though in his sleep, which if continued would still more invitingly present his breast to the deadly stroke. The murderer saw this too and paused. But not for long. He spun round wildly, his weapon flying from his outstretched hand, then fell, heavily, on his face--and this simultaneously with the muffled roar of an explosion beneath the blanket. The supposed sleeper had stealthily drawn his hip-pocket revolver, and, firing through the covering, had shot Hlangulu dead. Then the sleep which was overpowering him came upon him, and with a profound sense of security he dropped off, slumbering peacefully, where, but a few yards off lay the corpse of his victim and would-be murderer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is often a sort of an instinct which tells that a place is empty, whether house or room--empty, untenanted by its ordinary occupant. Just such a feeling was upon Blachland as he drew near his home. The gate of the stockade was shut and no smoke arose--nor was there any sign of life about the place. It had a deserted look. The fact depressed him. He was feeling fatigued and ill; in short, thoroughly knocked up. He had even realised that there were times when it is pleasant to have a home to return to, and this was one of them, and now as he rode up to his own gate there was no sign of a welcoming presence. He raised his voice in a stentorian hail. The two little Mashuna boys shot out of the back kitchen as scared as a couple of rabbits when the ferret is threading the winding passages to their burrow. Scared, anxious-looking, they opened the gate. "Where is your mistress?" he asked in Sindabele. "Gone, _Nkose_," was the reply. "Gone!" he echoed mentally. So Hermia had taken him at his word, and had decided to retreat to Fort Salisbury. Perhaps though, some disquieting news had arrived since his departure, causing her to take that step. His feeling of depression deepened as he entered the empty house. Ah! What was this? A letter stared at him from a conspicuous place, a sealed enclosure--and it was directed in Hermia's handwriting. That would explain, he thought. And it did with a vengeance.