“Perhaps, perhaps—if I struggled with myself—for the sake of my duties I might imbibe a few drops,” he said, looking with quivering lip up into the German’s face. “I must do my duty, must I not?”
Tant Sannie gave the order, and the girl went for the pap.
“I know how it was when my first husband died. They could do nothing with me,” the Boer-woman said, “till I had eaten a sheep’s trotter, and honey, and a little roaster-cake. I know.”
Bonaparte sat up on the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, and a hand on each knee, blubbering softly.
“Oh, she was a woman! You are very kind to try and comfort me, but she was my wife. For a woman that is my wife I could live; for the woman that is my wife I could die! For a woman that is my wife I could—Ah! that sweet word ‘wife’; when will it rest upon my lips again?”
When his feelings had subsided a little he raised the corners of his turned-down mouth, and spoke to the German with flabby lips.
“Do you think she understands me? Oh, tell her every word, that she may know I thank her.”
At that instant the girl reappeared with a basin of steaming gruel and a black bottle.
Tant Sannie poured some of its contents into the basin, stirred it well, and came to the bed.
“Oh, I can’t, I can’t! I shall die! I shall die!” said Bonaparte, putting his hands to his side.