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Updated: May 23, 2025
The brother of your personal enemy, Rupert Wilmshurst, is with the English forces operating against us. Several times I have spoken to him." "Has he any suspicion?" asked the hauptmann anxiously. "None at all," replied von Gobendorff. "It was easy to tell him a plausible tale. And how fares the interfering Englishman, Rupert Wilmshurst?"
Von Gobendorff, who had longed for the break of day in order to resume his flight to a supposedly safe refuge in the Karewenda Hills, found himself unable to resist the sleep of utter exhaustion, and as the last faint wreath of pale grey smoke rose from the dying embers he dropped into a deep slumber. He awoke to find the glade bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Something prompted him to grasp the dead man by his shoulder and turn him over on his back. As he did so, Dudley gave vent to an involuntary ejaculation of surprise. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's von Gobendorff." It was close on sunset when Wilmshurst, racked with pain, returned to the bivouac.
Some were questioned concerning the flight of von Gobendorff, their replies confirming the reports of the prisoners taken at M'ganga; and the surrendered men were ordered to return and give themselves up to the Indian troops, since the main objective of the patrol was the pursuit of the spy, von Gobendorff.
"Donnerwetter!" said the oberst vehemently. "Things have gone badly. It is indeed fortunate that we managed to find our way in. Had it not been for von Gobendorff here you have met von Gobendorff before, I understand?" "Der teufel!" ejaculated the hauptmann, grasping the hand of the motley-garbed man, "of course I have.
The latter was of slightly recent origin, as witnessed by the fact that here and there the footprints of the boots had partly obliterated those of the veldt-schoen. "It strikes me we've only just tumbled on the right spoor," declared a Rhodesian. "Of the two I should imagine von Gobendorff was wearing military boots.
A third man would have made all the difference. The trapped Birwa raised his eyes appealingly to the white man, but von Gobendorff stirred not so much as a little finger. The Hun, having no further use for the natives, was merely awaiting the catastrophe that would effectually cover his tracks.
"Paddle backwards!" ordered von Gobendorff, knowing that to attempt to turn the canoe would mean both loss of time and increased chances of being immediately swamped. With every muscle strained to its utmost capacity the Birwas strove desperately to back up-stream. Anxiously von Gobendorff kept his eyes fixed upon a mark in the bank.
With every indication of abasement they approached and awaited the white man's orders. Von Gobendorff pointed to the still warm embers of the fire. "I am hungry," he said. "Get me something to eat and drink, and be sharp." While one of the Birwas cut strips of flesh from the gnu and spitted them on skewers, the other placed more wood on the fire and coaxed it into a blaze.
By a series of hair-breadth escapes von Gobendorff had succeeded in making his way past the Pathan infantry picquets. For twenty minutes he had crouched up to his neck in the miasmatic waters of a forest pool, with thousands of mosquitoes buzzing round his unprotected head, while a patrol of the Rhodesian Light Horse halted within twenty yards of his place of concealment.
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