“What’s that?” he said quickly, looking from the one to the other.
Briefly she told him. This was a man not easily moved, but he was then.
“And I should have been lying there instead of that poor horse,” concluded the girl.
“I should think you would.” Then, to the stranger, “Well, sir, I don’t quite know what to say to you or how to put it—but I believe you can understand.”
The said stranger, almost writhing from the force of the hand grip which the other was administering to him, realised that he did understand. This strong, impassive-looking man was obviously moved to the core, but what seemed passing strange was that he refrained from any little outward and natural act of affection, or even word, towards his child who had just escaped a horrible death. No, that omission, indeed, he could not understand.
“Why, of course,” he answered. “But I’d better introduce myself. My name’s Elvesdon, and I’m the new magistrate at Kwabulazi, so we shall not be very distant neighbours. I hope, too, that we shall become very much better acquainted.”
“Same here. I’m Thornhill, and I own about thirteen thousand morgen (about double that number of acres), most of which you can see from where we stand, and a good deal of which is of no earthly use except to look at—or to paint,” with a smile at his daughter.
“It certainly is very good to look at,” said the stranger. “Does it hold much wild game, Mr Thornhill?”
“Middling. See that line of krantz yonder?” pointing to a craggy wall, about a mile away. “Well, that’s all bored with holes and caves—I was going to say it was filled with tiger (leopard) like bee-grubs in a comb, but that’s a little too tall. Still there are too many. Are you a sportsman, Mr—Elvesdon? Though—you must be, after what I’ve just heard.”
“I’m death on it. Where I’ve come from there wasn’t any.”