“This—what it say?” said the short Kafir, in very fair English, tapping the document, which he held open by one corner.
“Oh, it’s merely a letter asking for a few more horses to be sent on to Kangala,” answered Sandgate, with as much coolness as he could assume.
“That a lie!” was the prompt response. Then, threateningly, “Read that—out, so I hear it.”
“If you can talk English, surely you can read it,” answered Sandgate.
“Read it! Read!”—thrusting the paper before his face. “Read—or—”
“Or what?”
“That,” said the Kafir, pointing to the body of their murdered comrade, which the savages had already stripped, and which lay, a hideous and gory sight enough to strike terror into the survivors. But these were of the flower and pick of their nationality, and to neither of them did it for one instant occur to purchase his life by a revelation which might result in calamitous, even appalling, consequences. To both the moment was one which had reached a point of critical sublimity, as they took in the barbarous forms, the ring of cruel countenances, the dark, grisly hands grasping the ready and murderous assegai. Both were staring Death in the face very closely.
“Well, I shan’t read it,” said Sandgate, decisively.
“Nor I,” echoed Dick Selmes.
At a word from the English-speaking Kafir, a powerful, ochre-smeared ruffian seized Sandgate by the chin, and, jerking back his head, laid the sharp edge of an assegai blade against his distended throat.