Beryl’s face seemed cut out of stone. She made a step towards the old Kafir, and placed a hand on each shoulder. They were about the same height, and I saw her grasp tighten, on him, like a vice.
“Attend, Dumela. Are they in danger now, and where? Quick, do you hear? Quick.”
“Take the shortest way to the house of the Chatterer (Trask),” he answered, thus directly cornered. “Au! were there not two lives taken, two lives! And these are two lives.”
Almost flinging him from her, Beryl turned to me, and in her face, her tone, her gesture, was a very whirlwind of apprehension, of frenzied despair.
“Kenrick, what horses are in the stable?”
“Fortunately two—yours, Meerkat—and mine.”
“Saddle them up, quick. Get your revolver, and come.”
Not long did it take me to obey her behest, and indeed, no sooner had I done so than Beryl herself appeared at the stable door, equipped for our expedition.
Giving no further thought to old Dumela, we fared forth over the moonlit veldt.
“My presentiment was a true one after all, Kenrick,” remarked Beryl, as we rode side by side.