Chapter Forty Four.
In the Queer Prison.
I was roused up by the great skin-rug being jerked off me. I tried to rise, but sank back, just able to repress a groan, and stared wildly at the four bearded faces looking down at me. The curtains at front and rear had been thrown back, and the sun was shining in from the front, the horizontal rays striking right through the wagon. For a few moments I was so much confused and stupefied by sleep that I could not grasp the meaning of the scene. Then like a flash it all came. These four Boers were going to lead us out to execution—to be shot—the fate of spies!
I set my teeth, and felt as if getting hardened now. My eyes turned to Denham, who was seeking mine. He did not speak, but nodded and smiled faintly, the look giving encouragement. Clenching my teeth, together, I mentally vowed I would not let him be ashamed of me.
Just then my attention was diverted by one of our morning visitors, who differed in appearance from the others. He was better dressed, wore his hair short, and his moustache and beard were clipped into points. His hands, which he laid upon my shoulders, were white. To my surprise, this man examined my head, with its bandages and traces of injuries. Then he looked hard in my eyes, and turned me a little over to examine my tightly-bound wrists and ankles. Next he examined Denham in the same way, my comrade gazing straight away, with his brow knit and lips tightened into a thin red line, but he never once glanced at the examiner.
“Well,” said the latter, rising from one knee, “even if they are spies, you need not treat them as if they were wild beasts.”
“Captain Moriarty’s orders,” said the Boer, whom I recognised as my captor of the previous night.
“Bah!” growled the other angrily. “You are soldiers now; act like them.”