Edala was on the stoep as he passed out. She was putting some finishing touches to a water-colour drawing. In his then mood he did not suggest that she should accompany him; perhaps he feared the effect of a refusal or a reluctant consent.
“Are you going out, father? It’s awfully hot.”
“Yes, I’m going a short round. Back by dinner time.”
Three or four great rough-haired dogs, lying in the shade behind the stable, sprang up as the horse was led forth, whining and squirming with wild excitement at sight of the gun in their master’s hand. He, however, drove them back; he was not going to hunt, but there was always the chance of coming across unwary “vermin”—a jackal perhaps, or a rooikat.
The first point he made for was the scene of yesterday’s episode. As he approached it a low hum of voices was borne to his ears. Some half dozen natives stood clustered round the spot. The carcase of Elvesdon’s horse lay swollen and distended, tainting the air, and beside it the great snake. But on the latter was their attention concentrated.
“Whau! but that was the very king of serpents,” one of them was saying. “I, who am old, have never seen one like it—no never.”
“M-m!” hummed his hearers. “Nkose!”
This in respectful greeting as they became aware of the new arrival’s presence. He acknowledged it.
“I, who am old, have never seen one like it, impela,” repeated the speaker. “Nkose. The snake—the king of snakes—has killed the horse, but who has killed the snake?”
“The horse,” said Thornhill. “He fell over on it and broke its back, just after it had struck him.”