“The little yellow brute!” growled Webster.
“How terrified you must have been!”
“On the contrary, I was quite cool, and when the door showed signs of giving way I opened it and asked him to enter. He did, with a sudden change to humility, and as he stepped in with his hat in his hand, I—well—I am afraid I knocked him down with a heavy stick.”
“Bravo!” said Webster, laughing, while Hume flashed a swift look at her and saw how rigid were the muscles about her mouth.
“I would have escaped then, but on reaching the door I saw there were some black men seated about a fire. Returning to the room, I bound the man up with some ropes that were in the room, and waited. At night the Dutchman returned and knocked at the door. I said it was all right, whereupon—whereupon he laughed. After a time he slept, but the black men sat round the fire till the grey of dawn. Then I stole out, saddled one of the horses, and was silently moving off when one of the dogs barked; the natives shouted, and I was seized with a mortal terror and fled, and my guardian saint led me to you. That is all.”
The two friends looked at her for some moments in silence, and they recalled the figure of a girl standing on the bridge in the driving spume, unmoved by the shrieking of shells overhead.
They then told her how they had passed the time, and when they had finished, the waggon was inspanned and the journey resumed. As the oxen had well rested, they made this time a long “skoff,” trekking till sundown, when the waggon was drawn up under a wild fig-tree, whose vast branches afforded plenty of shade. Klaas hunted about for some leaves, which he brought to Miss Anstrade to place on her hands. A fire was built, the violin was brought out, and the men sat dreamily as the music floated on the soft air.
The next morning Miss Anstrade stepped from the waggon, holding in her hand a small sporting Martini.
“I wish to learn how to shoot,” she said gravely.
“Good!” said Hume. “It will be as well.”