“You require a wash,” said Webster gravely, “and a shave, and a new rig.”
Hume started back, as though he had been stung, with a forbidding look on his face; but presently he began to laugh. “Thank God!” muttered Webster.
“Ay, thank God!” said Hume solemnly; “if it had not been for the mercy of that laugh, Jim, I would have flown at you.”
They went down to the village, and soon after Hume reappeared properly clad and groomed. Sirayo, already growing sleek, joined them, and Klaas, who had followed his master back, sat with his eye on a comely maid.
Soon after that they left the valley with half a dozen men, and these they sent back to the valley with a goodly number of cows, and goods dear to Kaffir girls. Klaas remained to settle down in Sirayo’s kraal.
Five months later the two friends saw Miss Anstrade in London, but she was so changed from the woman who, in a short skirt and gaiters, had tramped beside them in the wilds that their hearts sank within them.
It was absurd to suppose that brilliant, magnificent woman, with those wondrous eyes and that imperious bearing, could condescend to hear them. Yet they went, and for courage they went together.
“Oh, merciful Lady!” she said, between crying and laughter, “I could not marry both of you.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Webster, stroking his fair beard and looking hard at Hume. “Perhaps I should not have spoken, but Frank would have me come.”
“It is a conspiracy,” she said, with a flash in her eyes. “You have come together out of some absurd notion of honour.”