He stuffed the papers into his pocket. As he did so, three slow and distinct taps were given on the crown of his head. Bonaparte’s jaw fell: each separate joint lost its power: he could not move; he dared not rise; his tongue lay loose in his mouth.
“Take all, take all!” he gurgled in his throat. “I—I do not want them. Take”—
Here a resolute tug at the grey curls at the back of his head caused him to leap up, yelling wildly. Was he to sit still paralyzed, to be dragged away bodily to the devil? With terrific shrieks he fled, casting no glance behind.
When the dew was falling, and the evening was dark, a small figure moved toward the gate of the furthest ostrich-camp, driving a bird before it. When the gate was opened and the bird driven in and the gate fastened, it turned away, but then suddenly paused near the stone wall.
“Is that you, Waldo?” said Lyndall, hearing a sound.
The boy was sitting on the damp ground with his back to the wall. He gave her no answer.
“Come,” she said, bending over him, “I have been looking for you all day.”
He mumbled something.
“You have had nothing to eat. I have put some supper in your room. You must come home with me, Waldo.”