They crept up to the tent and placed their ears within two inches of his head. Yes, he was asleep; the sound of his breathing rose and fell with the regularity of an infant’s.
Jess turned round and touched her companion upon the shoulder. He did not move, but she felt that his arm was shaking.
“Now,” she whispered.
Still he hung back. It was evident to her that the long waiting had taken the courage out of him.
“Be a man,” she whispered again, so low that the sound scarcely reached his ears although her lips were almost touching them, “go, and mind you strike home!”
Then at last she heard him softly draw the great knife from the sheath, and in another second he had glided from her side. Presently she saw the line of light that streamed upon the darkness through the opening of the tent broaden a little, and by this she knew that he was creeping in upon his dreadful errand. Then she turned her head and put her fingers in her ears. But even so she could see a long line of shadow travelling across the skirt of the tent. So she shut her eyes also, and waited sick at heart, for she did not dare to move.
Presently—it might have been five minutes or only half a minute afterwards, for she had lost count of time—Jess felt somebody touch her on the arm. It was Jantje.
“Is it done?” she whispered again.
He shook his head and drew her away from the tent. In going her foot caught one of the guy-ropes and stirred it slightly.
“I could not do it, missie,” he said. “He is asleep and looks just like a child. When I lifted the knife he smiled in his sleep and all the strength went out of my arm, so that I could not strike. And then before I grew strong again the spook of the old Englishwoman came and hit me in the back, and I ran away.”