"Can this possibly be you, Tom?" exclaimed Frank Jamieson in utter astonishment, when, in the squalid, half-clad figure lying huddled up against the wall of the hut, he recognised his friend and comrade Tom Flinders. "How came you here? It was officially reported in camp that you were killed when our corps attempted to retake the waggons on the 18th. I am most--" "Would that the report were true!" interrupted Tom in dejected tones; for he felt so completely broken down that not even the unexpected sight of his friend could rouse him. "I should be out of my misery then. These black devils have beaten and kicked me about like a dog; they've insulted and starved me, and driven me half-mad by keeping me without drink. Now I suppose they'll finish up by torturing us both to death." And, unable to control himself any longer, for he was quite hysterical from exhaustion, pain, and thirst, the poor lad burst into tears. In an instant Frank Jamieson was down on his knees beside his prostrate friend, and, taking a spirit-flask from the pocket of his blouse, he raised Tom's head and made him swallow a small quantity of brandy; he then produced a handful of moss-biscuit from another pocket and pressed him to eat it. But Tom shook his head, saying: "No, thanks, Frank, I'll not take it; you may want it yourself before long. Food is not plentiful in this miserable hole, I can assure you." "Nonsense, man!" retorted the other, seeing that, in spite of his refusal, Tom cast a hungry look at the biscuit. "Eat it at once, or I'll pitch it away." Then, as Tom devoured the biscuit, Frank said: "I think our lives are safe, though we may be detained prisoners for some time. The truth is I have a friend at court, who will do all he can for us." "But you're not a prisoner, Frank?" inquired Tom (upon whom the sup of brandy and mouthful of wholesome food had already had a most beneficial effect), as he regarded his comrade with a puzzled look. "You cannot for a moment suppose that I came here willingly!" laughed Jamieson. "What makes you ask such an extraordinary question? I hope you don't think that I am a _deserter_!" "Why, you don't _look_ like a prisoner," Tom rejoined. "In the first place, the Caffres have left you your clothes; and secondly, they don't appear to have made free with the contents of your pockets; whereas, they've stripped pretty nearly every rag off my back, and knocked me about into the bargain. How is it they let you off so easily?" "Well, as I told you before, I have a friend at court," Jamieson answered. "It fortunately happened that Untsikana, the chief into whose clutches I fell, is an old acquaintance--in fact, about two years ago I saved his life; and moreover, he was under great obligations to my poor father--" "_Poor_ father!" echoed Tom. "I hope the captain is--" "The dear old governor is dead, Tom," interrupted Frank with a deep sigh. "I thought you knew it. When last seen he was fighting by your side."