But no mare was to be seen.
Something else was to be seen, however, for there, three or four miles
away upon the plain behind them, easy to be distinguished in that
dazzling air, were a number of black spots that occasionally seemed to
sparkle.
"What are they?" she asked faintly, as one who feared the answer.
"The Matabele who follow us," answered her father, "or rather a company
of their swiftest runners. It is their spears that glitter so. Now,
my love, this is the position," he went on, as they struggled forward:
"those men will catch us before ever we can get to Bambatse; they are
trained to run like that, for fifty miles, if need be. But with this
start they cannot catch your horse, you must go on and leave me to look
after myself."
"Never, never!" she exclaimed.
"But you shall, and you must. I am your father and I order you. As for
me, what does it matter? I may hide from them and escape, or--at least I
am old, my life is done, whereas yours is before you. Now, good-bye, and
go on," and he let go of the saddle-strap.
By way of answer Benita pulled up the horse.
"Not one yard," she said, setting her mouth.
Then he began to storm at her, calling her disobedient, and undutiful,
and when this means failed to move her, to implore her almost with
tears.
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