“And, Sam—didn’t your master tell you how long he would be away?”
“No, Missie Lilian—yes, he did. He say, be away not long—come back very soon—in few days. Yes, he come back in very few days—dat what Inkos say, de last ting.”
“A very few days!” Just what he had told Mrs Payne. Things looked promising.
“Was he looking—looking well, Sam? He has to travel alone, too,” she added, half to herself.
“No, Missie Lilian, he not ride ’lone. One Dutchman going back to laager. Inkos and dat Dutchman ride together. Inkos he buy horse from dat Dutchman—big young horse—’cos Fleck go lame. Dey see Amaxosa nigger, dey shoot—shoot. Amaxosa not hurt. Inkos—Amaxosa nigga no good. Ha?”
“Why, Sam; you don’t mean they met any Kafirs?” exclaimed Lilian in alarm.
“No. Dey not see any nigga, Missie Lilian. Sam mean if dey see Amaxosa dey shoot—shoot ’em dead. Bang!”
He did not tell her of the warning as to the dangers of the road, which the two troopers had given his master the last thing before he started. It would only make her uneasy, and, besides, Sam had the most rooted faith in his chief’s invulnerability.
Then Sam, being once under weigh, launched out into much reminiscence, all tending towards one point, the glorification of his master and his master’s exploits; for which his said master would have been sorely tempted to kick him, could he have overheard; but which, to his present listener, was of all topics the most welcome.
“Hallo, Sam, you rascal! Where have you dropped from?”