“A Kafir?” echoed Le Sage. “Hullo, Wyvern. Your snake-bitten chap has not only performed his own funeral but he has already begun to walk.”
“Come over to where I was sitting,” said the girl. “I can show you better from there.”
“But hang it, Lalanté, you’re not the one to be scared by the sight of a Kafir,” said her father, incredulously.
“This one had an awful look,” she answered, with a little shudder. “Hardly human—almost like someone dead.”
She had been leading the way—it was only a few yards—to where she had been seated under the shade of some willows.
“Look,” she said. “It was over that prickly pear stem. Something made me look up and I saw a head—a fearful-looking black head, not like anything in life. It was glaring at me with such an awful expression, I wonder I didn’t scream, but I believe I was afraid even to do that. Then it sank down again and disappeared.”
The point indicated might have been a couple of dozen yards distant Wyvern, pressing her hand, felt that she was in a state of tremble.
“Come along, Wyvern. We’ll look into this,” said Le Sage irritably. He was a man who hated mystery, and was incredulous as regarded this one. “If there is any mad Kafir hanging about here a touch of stirrup iron’ll be the best remedy should he prove obstreperous.” And so saying he went to his horse’s side and detached one of the stirrups. Now a stirrup iron in the hands of one who knows how to use it, is a very formidable weapon of offence or defence.
“But I’ll go too,” said the girl, quickly. “I’m dead off staying here by myself after that experience.”
“Quite sure it was an experience?” queried her father, somewhat sourly.