“What do you think of our main line of defence?” he went on, speaking English with hardly an accent. “Those men have the most perfect faith in themselves and their cause.”
“Yes, they look business-like,” replied Colvin, critically scanning the long string of mounted burghers as they filed past, most of them smoking their pipes, and chatting to each other in a placid undertone. “We had some of their kind in Matabeleland during the rising in ’96, and they were right good men.”
“Ah! So you were out in the Matabele rebellion?” said Da Costa, looking at the other with newly-awakened interest.
“Yes, had to be.”
“I see. And are you, may I ask, likely to be out in this campaign?”
“Not in the least, unless as a spectator. Here I am not needed—there I was:—which makes all the difference.”
“If you are, I hope we may meet in the field. I shall be pleased to show you all you may be wishing to see to the best advantage.”
“Now, Dr Da Costa, you are not to encourage him,” struck in Aletta. “Mr Kershaw is not going to be shot at at all. He is not needed, as he says, and—you are not to encourage him.”
The other, who had heard of Piet Plessis’ attractive kinswoman and her English fiancé, smiled good-naturedly. Then, to change the conversation, he went on:
“Did you make a long stay at Johannesburg, Mr Kershaw?”