“Is that all?” I asked. “Then bar the door and follow me to the sitkammer, where the baas keeps his guns.”
Just as we reached it, Leblanc entered, clad in his shirt and trousers, and was followed presently by Marie with a candle.
“What is it?” he asked.
I took the candle from Marie’s hand, and set it on the floor close to the wall, lest it should prove a target for an assegai or a bullet. Even in those days the Kaffirs had a few firearms, for the most part captured or stolen from white men. Then in a few words I told them all.
“And when did you learn all this?” asked Leblanc in French.
“At the Mission Station a little more than half an hour ago,” I answered, looking at my watch.
“At the station a little more than half an hour ago! Peste! it is not possible. You dream or are drunken,” he cried excitedly.
“All right, monsieur, we will argue afterwards,” I answered. “Meanwhile the Kaffirs are here, for I rode through them; and if you want to save your life, stop talking and act. Marie, how many guns are there?”
“Four,” she answered, “of my father’s; two roers and two smaller ones.”
“And how many of these men”—and I pointed to the Kaffirs—“can shoot?”