Not being particularly soft-hearted, and having in mind, besides his own injuries, those raw wrists of Lawless’ which he had unbound in the early morning by the obscure light in the Kaffir hut, he drew the rope tightly about Van Bleit’s thick wrists and fastened it securely with a vindictive satisfaction in the knowledge of the discomfort he caused.
“You ought to feel flattered,” he said, “that we admired your methods sufficiently to copy them.”
He stepped from behind and stood in front of him, jeering.
“Wouldn’t you like to kiss me? ... It may be your last opportunity.”
Van Bleit’s ashen face turned brick red, and from red changed again slowly to the dirty grey colour that told of the terror that possessed him. He did not answer, but he spat at his tormentor in his rage.
Lawless dismounted and hitched the rein of his horse to a limb of a tree. He pocketed his weapon, and approached Van Bleit, who, expecting a personal attack, fell back hurriedly before his advance.
“Stand still,” he commanded. And Van Bleit obeyed.
“What are you up to?” he asked nervously... “You’re remembering things against me. You’ve got a grudge—both of you. Well, just you remember that I might have murdered you that morning—without risk... and I didn’t.”
“I’m remembering,” Lawless answered, “everything.”
He turned to Hayhurst.