“It's near a place called Rondebosch. I remember the locality well, though it's ten years since I was there. The shortest way back is through a pine-wood at the far end of The Flats—you know that place, of course.”
“I know The Flats. And you mean to come through the pine-wood?”
“I do mean it. It's a nasty place to ride through, but the horse always goes right in a case like that, and I'll give him his head.”
“Take care that you have your own at that time,” said Markham. “The house of the Irishman is not like Colonel Gerald's.”
“I hope not, for a more thirsty evening I never spent than at your friend's cottage. The good society hardly made up for the want of drink. It put me in mind of the story of the man that found the pearls when he was starving in the desert. What are bishops and kings to a fellow if he is thirsty?”
“You will leave the house to return here between eleven and twelve, I suppose?” said Oswin.
“Well, I should say that about eleven will see me on my way.”
“And you will go through the pine-wood?”
“I will, my boy, and across The Flats until I pass the little river—it's there still, I suppose. And now suppose I buy you a drink?”
But Oswin Markham declined to be the object of such a purchase. He went back to his own room, and threw himself on his bed, where he remained for more than an hour. Then he rose and wiped his forehead.