Denham frowned, and sat gently rubbing his wrists. I followed his example during nearly an hour. While thus employed we could hear a good deal of bustle and noise going on in the neighbourhood of the wagon, and sundry odours which floated in suggested that the Boers in camp did not starve themselves. Meanwhile we were very silent and thoughtful, expecting that at any moment we might be summoned to meet our fate.
At last there was the sound of approaching steps, and I drew my breath hard as an order was given to halt, followed by the rattle of rifles being grounded.
I was unable to speak then, but held out my hand quickly to Denham, who seized it in both of his, and his lips parted as if to say good-bye, yet no words were uttered. The next moment he let my hand drop and turned his eyes away, for the big Boer who had become so familiar now climbed into the wagon, glanced at us, and then reached down outside for two large pannikins of hot coffee, which he carefully lifted inside.
“Here,” he said gruffly; “help to keep up your spirits.”
He set the tins beside us, then went to the back of the wagon and reached down again for a couple of large, newly-baked cakes, which he handed to us.
“The Irish captain didn’t give any orders,” he said; “but we don’t starve our prisoners to death.”
With that he scowled at us in turn, and left the wagon.
“Toll me what he said, Val,” whispered Denham in a tone of voice which sounded very strange.
With difficulty I repeated in English what the man had said; I felt as if choking.
“I wish they hadn’t done this, Val,” said Denham after a minute’s interval. “It seems like a mockery.”