"Thank you," replied the Kafir, and obeyed.
The paraffin lamp shed its unwinking light on a scene that challenged irresponsible fancy with the reality of crazy fact. The Boer's consciousness of the portentous character of the event governed him strongly; there was majesty in his bearing as he brought the coffee pot from the fire and stood at the side of the seated Kafir and poured him a cupful. It was done with the high sense of ceremony, the magnificent humility, of a Pope washing the immaculate feet of highly sanitary and disinfected beggars.
"There is mutton," he said, pointing; "or I have sardines. Shall I fetch a tin?"
"I will have mutton, thanks," replied Kamis, with an equal formality, and drew the dish towards him.
The Boer seated himself at the opposite side of the table. The compact, as he understood it, required that he should eat also. He cut himself meat and bread very precisely, doubtfully aware that he was rather hungry. This, he felt vaguely, stained a situation where all should have been formal and symbolic. He ate slowly, with a dim, religious appetite.
Kamis might have found the meal more amusing if he had been less weary. An idea that he would insist upon conversation visited him, but he dismissed it; he was really too tired to assault the heavy solemnity which faced him across the table. It would yield to no casual advances; he would have to exert himself, to be specious and dexterous, to waylay the man's interest.
He pushed his unfinished food from him.
"I will go home, now," he said.
"You have had enough?" questioned the Boer.
"Thank you," said Kamis, and rose.