“What I say. You shot at me twice under pretence of firing at a buck. Look here!”—and he took up his soft black hat, which he still wore—“here is the mark of one of your bullets! I did not know about it then; I do now, and I decline to shake hands with you.”
By this time Muller’s fury had got the better of him. “You shall answer for that, you English liar!” he said, at the same time clapping his hand to his belt, in which his hunting-knife was placed. Thus for a few seconds they stood face to face. John never flinched or moved. There he stood, quiet and strong as some old stubby tree, his plain honest face and watchful eye affording a strange contrast to the beautiful but demoniacal countenance of the great Dutchman. Presently he spoke in measured tones.
“I have proved myself a better man than yourself once, Frank Muller, and if necessary I will again, notwithstanding that knife of yours. But, in the meantime, I wish to remind you that I have a pass signed by your own General guaranteeing our safety. And now, Mr. Muller,” with a flash of the blue eyes, “I am ready.” The Dutchman drew the knife, but replaced it in its sheath. For a moment he was minded to end the matter then and there, but suddenly, even in his rage, he remembered that there was a witness.
“A pass from the General!” he said, forgetting his caution in his fury. “Much good a pass from the General is likely to be to you. You are in my power, man! If I choose to close my hand I can crush you. But there—there,” he added, checking himself, “perhaps I ought to make allowances. You are one of a defeated people, and no doubt are sore, and say what you do not mean. Anyhow, there is an end of it, especially in the presence of a lady. Some day we may be able to settle our trouble like men, Captain Niel; till then, with your permission, we will let it drop.”
“Quite so, Mr. Muller,” said John, “only you must not ask me to shake hands with you.”
“Very good, Captain Niel; and now, if you will allow me, I will tell the boy to get your horses in; we must be getting on if we are to reach Heidelberg to-night.” And he bowed himself out, feeling that once more his temper had endangered the success of his plans. “Curse the fellow!” he said to himself: “he is what those English call a gentleman. It was brave of him to refuse to take my hand when he is in my power.”
“John,” said Jess, as soon as the door had closed, “I am afraid of that man. If I had understood that he had anything to do with the pass I would not have taken it. I thought that the writing was familiar to me. Oh dear! I wish we had stopped at Pretoria.”
“What can’t be cured must be endured,” said John again. “The only thing to do is to make the best of it, and get on as we can. You will be all right anyhow, but he hates me like poison. I suppose that it is on account of Bessie.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Jess: “he is, or was, madly in love with Bessie.”
“It is curious to think that a man like that can be in love,” remarked John as he lit his pipe, “but it only shows what queer mixtures people are. I say, Jess, if this fellow hates me so much, what made him give me the pass, eh? What’s his game?”