Presently Hendrik came in to say that the horse was eating well, and turned to go out again, when his master beckoned him to stop. The man was surprised, for generally his master was not fond of his society, except when he wanted to consult him or persuade him to exercise his pretended art of divination. The truth was, however, that at the moment Frank Muller would have been glad to consort with a dog. The events of the night had brought this terrible man, steeped in iniquity from his youth up, down to the level of a child frightened at the dark. For a while he sat in silence, the Kafir squatting on the ground at his feet. Presently, however, the doses of powerful spirit took effect on him, and he began to talk more unguardedly than was his custom, even with his black “familiar” Hendrik.
“How long have you been here?” he asked of his retainer.
“About four days, Baas.”
“Did you take my letter to Oom Croft’s?”
“Yah, Baas. I gave it to the missie.”
“What did she do?”
“She read it, and then stood like this, holding on to the verandah pole;” and he opened his mouth and one eye, twisting up his hideous countenance into a ghastly imitation of Bessie’s sorrow-stricken face, and gripping the post that supported the hut to give verisimilitude to his performance.
“So she believed it?”
“Surely.”
“What did she do, then?”