It was some hours before they could feel comfortable in their minds after that battue—that is, our heroes. The Kaffirs felt and showed no emotion whatever. Our heroes, however, walked silently and thoughtfully through the greater portion of that day, and when they camped that night, their prayers somehow did not give them the usual satisfaction. They felt as if they had assisted at a needless and cowardly massacre, and as if they merited punishment for committing an unworthy crime. They would have liked to have asked forgiveness for this action.
Yet these were merely beasts who must have disputed their passage, soulless monstrosities, for whom it seemed ridiculous to feel pity. The first and second they had killed in self-defence.
But the baby—ah, that was what lay so heavy on their consciences!
“I don’t mind the old man one bit,” murmured Ned, as he tossed about. “He was too much like President Kruger for me to let him live, when I saw my chance to wipe him off. He may have had some virtues—as Kruger may have. They both appear to be fond of their own, and willing to fight for them; but that wretched pup—I wish I could forget it.”
Events shortly banished this painful episode from the minds of these brave adventurers, and the jackals would soon remove the traces from the earth. Like the leaves of the forest, the lives of men and animals are trifles of no more consideration than the shadow that crosses a sundial and marks the hour.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Thunderstorm.
Ned sternly put his veto on any more monkey-hunting, big or small, as a cruel and useless expenditure of ammunition. They were harmless if left alone, as they were not carnivorous, and totally unfitted for food, unless for starving men, which this party was not by any means.