“That’s the way we tie up a Kaffir,” said the first one.
“Yes,” replied the other; “and it does just as well for a spy. There, you may thank the field-cornet, Piet Zouter, for the skin-rugs. You wouldn’t have got them from us.”
“Then we won’t thank you,” I said bitterly.
“And look here; we’ve six men with loaded rifles about the wagon, and they’ve orders to shoot if you try to get away.”
I nodded my head. One of the Boers lifted down the lantern, passed it out, and received a fresh one from a comrade. After this the men retired; and we were alone, listening to their talk, with the sentries placed over us. When the conversation ceased I whispered to Denham an interpretation of all that had passed.
“The brutes!” he muttered. “Lucky we hadn’t cut our ropes; they would have found us out. Now, what’s to be done? We must get away.”
“How?” I asked sadly.
“Let’s draw the rugs over us, lie down, and keep on trying till we can wriggle out of the thongs.”
“How are we to get the rugs over us?”
“As a bird makes a nest—with the beak.”