Outside he found his host, in converse with a Zulu, not one of the three men who had met him on his arrival.
“Good-morning. I wonder how my horse is to-day,” he said.
“He’s about all right. I’ve had him led up and down, and he doesn’t seem to show any limp. I’ll send a man to guide you over the most difficult part of the way after breakfast. You needn’t mistrust him, it’s sufficient that you have been my guest.”
It was all that the wayfarer could do to refrain from asking for his host’s identity, but something kept him from doing so; possibly he bore in mind that his said host had refrained from questioning him as to his. They talked on commonplaces. But after breakfast, when his horse was saddled up and the guide stood waiting, his entertainer said—
“You didn’t lose this yesterday, did you?” exhibiting a double-barrelled shotgun.
He was conscious of a slight paling, but hoped it had not been observed. Yet at the same time he was perfectly certain it had.
“No,” he answered.
“Ah, well. Then I’d better take charge of it until the owner turns up. And, remember, you have given me your word.” And the straight, piercing, compelling glance seemed to scorch.
“Why, of course I have, and you may rely upon my keeping it. Many thanks for your opportune hospitality. Good-bye.”
The hand which he had put forth was taken coldly, almost limply.