Van Bleit eyed him calculatingly. His courage had returned to a certain degree since he had suffered no personal violence. He felt reassured on that point. But his respect for his captor was no greater on that account. Had their relative positions been reversed he would have acted very differently.
“My arms are numb,” he grumbled. “Can’t you put me on parole and undo this cord? It’s the very devil I’m suffering in my wrists.”
But Lawless was wholly unmoved.
“When we part company,” he said, “I’ll free them—which is more than you did for me. As for your parole! ... I wouldn’t place greater trust in your word than I would in that of a Kaffir.”
Van Bleit controlled himself with an effort.
“You’re armed, and I’m not,” he sneered.
“Yes, I’m armed. But I’m not going to put myself to the trouble of sitting with my finger on the trigger.”
Van Bleit got up and walked about. He was stiff and hungry, and his head ached. He believed he had a touch of fever. He was subject to intermittent attacks, and lying out all night with no protection from the heavy dews was sufficient to bring on an attack. He cursed volubly as he tramped about, and swore swift and dire vengeance on his enemy, who, exercising also with his hands in his coat pockets, was keeping a steady watch on his movements.
The Kaffir awoke after a while, and, rolling over, stared about him as if wondering how he came to be amid his present surroundings. Then his eye encountered the terrible eye of the strange baas with the scar upon his face, and he scrambled to his feet and grinned nervously.
“In an hour’s time I shall want the horses inspanned, John.”