"Ee-wah t In-koos," he answered in the affirmative; "but where I know not. Ask thou, master, these Bushmen, they know!"
There were two Bushmen in the camp, who had turned up but the day before and I made Kambala bring the small, pot-bellied men to where I sat. I knew their "talk."
"The baas with the scarred face," I said; "whither went he?"
"No! no!" they answered in their clicking tongue, "we know not! Who knows? Not we 'Khoi Khoian.'"
"Ye are no 'Khoi Khoian' (Hottentots, as Bushmen often like to style themselves), but San (Bushmen), and of these parts. Therefore, answer me where is he, that scarred one?"
They squatted on their haunches before me, looking at me furtively from their little slits of eyes, muttering to each other afraid.
"Master, we fear," they said reluctantly. "He is a great witch, that 'old one' we know him well. Often does he cross the dunes where even we dare not go where no man goes!"
"Seek him," I ordered.
"No! no!" they said again, "he leaves no spoor and we fear. It is not well to follow that 'old one'!"
And search as I could, no spoor did I find.