“Now, my brothers,” she said, with a brilliant smile, “all shake hands.”
Webster held out his hand frankly, but Hume refused.
“What,” she said, “you will not forgive him?”
“No, madam. If he has been the tool of a man more cunning than himself, he has been a willing tool. That mark across your forehead—how did it come there?”
“From the lash of a rebounding branch, as I galloped through the bush.”
“I am very sorry,” said Piet.
“Then go,” shouted Hume, “and thank this lady that you have not got what you deserved.”
“I will remember you,” growled Piet, as he moved off, “and maybe the sjambok you promised me will fall on your own shoulders.”
Hume, with his rifle in his hand, followed the young Boer, and saw him mount and ride away, leading the other horse. On reaching a ridge Piet turned and shook his fist, then suddenly dropping his reins he took a deliberate aim at Hume. A full half-minute he kept the deadly weapon at his shoulder, then, with a laugh, let it drop to the saddle, and disappeared. Hume, who had stood the ordeal with a bitter smile on his mouth, turned back to the camp and met Webster.
“Your friend has gone,” he said.