“How far are we from Koodoo’s Vley?” said Rivers, as he leaned back against the sloping bank, after having made a delicious meal.
“Koodoo’s Vley? About three hours’ ride. Give the horses a long rest, and we shall get there before the moon goes down.”
George relapsed into thought. The excitement of the last few hours had left no time for reflection, but now the recollection of what had passed between himself and Annchen came vividly back. He had long felt assured that, notwithstanding the distance at which he had always been kept from her, she was not indifferent to him, but now he had had a distinct assurance to that effect from her lips. For a moment the doubt crossed him whether, in the few hurried words he spoke to her before the attack, he had not in some measure broken his promise to Vander Heyden. There had been little time for reflection, and his had been dictated by a sudden impulse. But no. He felt sure it had not been so. His promise to Vander Heyden had been that he would not ask her to be his wife, and he had not asked her. Doubtless she would expect him to follow up his declaration by a formal offer, but it must rest with her brother whether that must be made. On the whole, he had good hope, when he recalled the particulars of Vander Heyden’s interview with him, that he would withdraw his opposition. At all events, there was no need to be down-hearted about it, and perhaps the less his thoughts rested upon it the better.
He turned to Matamo, who was sitting on the other side of the fire, sorely disturbed, apparently, at the long silence to which George’s reverie had consigned him. He responded at once to George’s advances, who inquired of him whether he had known Mr Prestcott before he met him a few days previously.
“Do I know Mr Prestcott? Yes, sir, I have known him a long time. Very good Baas, is Mr Prestcott. He tells pretty stories.”
“More pretty than true, hey, Matamo?” suggested George. “Did you hear his story about the lion and the powder-flask?”
“Yes, sir; I have heard that more than once. It gets nicer every time it is told. Mr Hardy, too, he tells a nice story about the cobra in the tree, but not so nice as my story about the big boa.”
“Your story—an adventure of your own, like the leap off the hippopotamus’s head, eh? Let us hear it by all means, Matamo.”
“Yes, sir. It happened a great many years ago. I had been sent on an errand to the Kasal Mountains. A fat old Dutchman seized me, and would not believe my story, but made a slave of me. If I said a word, he tied me up to the cart-wheel and flogged me with the jambok. One day he sent me after an ox that had strayed. He was always afraid that I should run away, and if I was any time out, came to meet me with the jambok ready in his hand. I couldn’t find the ox anywhere, but I thought I saw something moving in a thick bush, and I fancied it might be the stray beast. I forced my way inside, and trod on what I thought was the end of a log. But it was a great boa, not a log. The boa put up its head and was going to spring; but I ran like a springbok, and the boa after me. I never went so fast in my life, but the boa went faster. Just on the edge of the wood, I saw the fat Dutchman coming with the whip. When the Dutchman saw the boa, he too turned and ran. But I ran faster than the Dutchman anyhow. The boa thought he was better eating than a lean Bechuana boy, and he caught him round the waist and twisted himself all about him. The Dutchman was so big that the boa only went twice round him. He bellowed for help so loud that every one could hear him, so there was no need for me to tell them.”
