John had told her one day when they were sitting together in “The Palatial” at Pretoria the whole of Jantje’s awful story about the massacre of his relatives by Frank Muller twenty years before, of which, indeed, she already knew something. It would be most fitting that this fiend should be removed from the face of the earth by the survivor of those unfortunates. That would be poetic justice, and justice is so rare in the world. But the question was, would he do it? The little man was a wonderful coward, that she knew, and had a great terror of Boers, and especially of Frank Muller.
“Jantje,” she whispered, stooping towards the bee-hole.
“Yah, missie,” answered a hoarse voice outside, and next second the Hottentot’s monkey-like face came creeping into the ring of light, followed by his even more monkey-like form.
“Sit down there, Jantje. I am lonely here and want to talk.”
He obeyed her, with a grin. “What shall we talk about, missie? Shall I tell you a story of the time when the beasts could speak, as I used to do years and years ago?”
“No, Jantje. Tell me about that stick—that long stick with a knob at the top, and the nicks cut on it. Has it not something to do with Frank Muller?”
The Hottentot’s face instantly grew evil. “Yah, yah, missie!” he said, reaching out a skinny claw and seizing the stick. “Look, this big notch, that is my father, Baas Frank shot him; and this next notch, that is my mother, Baas Frank shot her; and this next notch, that is my uncle, an old, old man, Baas Frank shot him also. And these small notches, they are when he has beaten me—yes, and other things too. And now I will make more notches, one for the house that is burnt, and one for the old Baas Croft, my own Baas, whom he is going to shoot, and one for Missie Bessie.” And Jantje drew from his side his large white-handled hunting-knife and began to cut them then and there upon the hard wood of the stick.
Jess knew this knife of old. It was Jantje’s peculiar treasure, the chief joy of his narrow little heart. He had brought it from a Zulu for a heifer which her uncle had given him in lieu of half a year’s wage. The Zulu had it from a half-caste whose kraal was beyond Delagoa Bay. As a matter of fact it was a Somali knife, manufactured from the soft native steel which takes an edge like a razor, and with a handle cut out of the tusk of a hippopotamus. For the rest, it was about a foot long, with three grooves running the length of the blade, and very heavy.
“Stop cutting notches, Jantje, and let me look at that knife.”
He obeyed, and put it into her hand.