The smoke did
not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering
masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England. The sun was
nearing the horizon; his slant red rays lighted up the red plain, the
red sand, the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral glow of crimson.
After those red pools of blood, this universal burst of redness appalled
one. It seemed as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league
with the Matabele. We rode on without a word. The red sky grew redder.
"They may have sacked Salisbury!" I exclaimed at last, looking out
towards the brand-new town.
"I doubt it," Hilda answered. Her very doubt reassured me.
We began to mount a long slope. Hilda pedalled with difficulty. Not a
sound was heard save the light fall of my pony's feet on the soft new
road, and the shrill cry of the cicalas. Then, suddenly, we started.
What was that noise in our rear? Once, twice, it rang out. The loud ping
of a rifle!
Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten mounted Matabele! Stalwart
warriors they were--half naked, and riding stolen horses. They were
coming our way! They had seen us! They were pursuing us!
"Put on all speed!" I cried, in my agony.
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