The stranger sat down on the opposite side of the fire. His complexion was dark; his arms and feet were bronzed; but his aquiline features, and the domed forehead, were not of any South African race.
“One of the Soudanese Rhodes brought with him from the north, I suppose?” said Peter, still eyeing him curiously.
“No; Cecil Rhodes has had nothing to do with my coming here,” said the stranger.
“Oh—” said Peter. “You didn’t perhaps happen to come across a company of men today, twelve white men and seven coloured, with three cart loads of provisions? We were taking them to the big camp, and I got parted from my troop this morning. I’ve not been able to find them, though I’ve been seeking for them ever since.”
The stranger warmed his hands slowly at the fire; then he raised his head:—“They are camped at the foot of those hills tonight,” he said, pointing with his hand into the darkness at the left. “Tomorrow early they will be here, before the sun has risen.”
“Oh, you’ve met them, have you!” said Peter joyfully; “that’s why you weren’t surprised at finding me here. Take a drop!” He took the small flask from his pocket and held it out. “I’m sorry there’s so little, but a drop will keep the cold out.”
The stranger bowed his head; but thanked and declined.
Peter raised the flask to his lips and took a small draught; then returned it to his pocket. The stranger folded his arms about his knees, and looked into the fire.
“Are you a Jew?” asked Peter, suddenly; as the firelight fell full on the stranger’s face.
“Yes; I am a Jew.”