“That beast of a Kafir is not here,” he said aloud, “I will have him flogged to death. Hendrik! Hendrik!”
As he called, a form rose up at his very feet, causing the weary horse to start back so violently that he almost threw his rider to the ground.
“What in the name of the devil are you?” almost shrieked Frank Muller, whose nerves, indeed, were in no condition to bear fresh shocks.
“It is I, Baas,” said the form, at the same time throwing off a grey blanket in which it was enveloped, and revealing the villainous countenance of the one-eyed witch-doctor, who had taken the letter to Bessie. For years this man had been Muller’s body-servant, who followed him about like a shadow.
“Curse you, you dog! What do you mean by hiding up like that? It is one of your infernal tricks; be careful”—tapping his pistol case—“or I shall one day put an end to you and your witchcraft together.”
“I am very sorry, Baas,” said the man in a whine, “but half an hour ago I heard you coming. I don’t know what is the matter with the air to-night, but it sounded as though twenty people were galloping after you. I could hear them all quite clearly; first the big black horse, and then all those that followed, just as though they were hunting you. So I came out and lay down to listen, and it was not till you were quite close that one by one the others stopped. Perhaps it was the devils who galloped.”
“Damn you, stop that wizard’s talk,” said Muller, his teeth chattering with fear and agitation. “Take the horse, groom and feed him well; he has galloped far, and we start at dawn. Stop, tell me, where are the lights and the brandy? If you have drunk the brandy I will flog you.”
“They are on the shelf to the left as you go in, Baas, and there is flesh too, and bread.”
Muller swung himself from the saddle and entered the hut, pushing open the cranky, broken-hinged door with a kick. He found the box of Tandstickor matches, and, after one or two attempts—due chiefly to his shaking hand—succeeded in striking fire and lighting a coarse dip such as the Boers make out of mutton fat. Near the candle were a bottle of peach brandy two thirds full, a tin pannikin and a jug of river water. Seizing the pannikin, he half filled it with spirit, added a little water, and drank off the mixture. Then he took the meat and bread from the same shelf, and, cutting some of each with his clasp-knife, tried to eat. But he could not swallow much, and soon gave up the attempt, consoling himself instead with the brandy.
“Bah!” he said, “the stuff tastes like hell fire;” and he filled his pipe and sat smoking.