“Where are you going?”
“To my people—I left my heart in the bush,”—meaning his wife.
“Why did you leave Vanbloem?”
“He sent me away.”
“Why did you try to steal arms from the master’s wagon?”
“I do not understand you.”
Zoonah’s stolid air convinced Frankfort, too, that it was of no use to question him. It was evident that May was right—he was a spy on his way to his own chief’s kraal, and, as the bushman observed, it was useless to waste words upon a liar.
“He’s born liar—he’ll die liar; he’s born blackguard, and he’ll die blackguard.”
And, with this last truly English vituperative, May left the thicket, and went to prepare his master’s breakfast.
He had tied up the dogs and kept watch himself all night, lying in the long grass between Frankfort’s tent and Ormsby’s wagon, and had seen Zoonah, just as the moon was waning, winding himself along in snake fashion, till he reached the young officer’s sleeping-place, in which he was wont to spend part of the day, reading and smoking, with “pistol, sword, and carbine,” slung above him.