“Would he be likely to ride off somewhere to where there is a commando?”
“For the sake of getting us taken prisoners or shot?”
“Or so as to get possession of our ponies! I saw him examining them as if he liked them.”
“So did I.”
There was silence again, and West spoke.
“Ingle,” he said, “I can’t sleep here; the despatch seems to be sticking into me to remind me of my duty. We shall rest better in our saddles than on this wretched bed. What do you say—the free cool air of the veldt, or this stuffy, paraffiny room?”
“Let’s be off, and at once!”
“We will. We can slip out quietly without waking these people, and most likely we are misjudging the man, who has the regular racial hatred of the British.”
“Perhaps; but we must be careful, for if he heard us going to the shed and meddling with the horses he’d likely enough begin blazing away at us with his rifle.”
At that moment West clutched his companion’s arm, for they heard no sound, but all at once the dark silhouette of a man’s head appeared framed in the little back window against a background of starry points which glistened like gold.