She laughed. “I see, it was the horse that ran away with me; it was the horse that caused my hands to be torn, it was the horse that came in the night when my friends were away, and carried me off by force.” The smile was on her lips still, but there was such a look of scorn from her eyes that he trembled.
“I do not understand,” he said humbly.
“You know that I was taken from my friends at night, and you must understand, surely, that that was the act of robbers.”
“But he said you wished to escape.”
“Who?”
“That Portuguese Gobo. He told me you were of his country, and that these men were carrying you off into the desert, so that they could benefit from your death without being detected.”
“Is this the truth?”
“I am a Boer,” replied the young Dutchman with some dignity, “and I do not work harm to women. If the Portuguese has made a fool of me I will wring his neck.”
“He is a bad man. These are my friends who have helped me in great danger, and you caused them great suffering in taking me away. You have acted like a child; but it is because I see you have been misled I forgive you.”
She held out her hand, which he took in his, while a flush of manly shame spread over his face.