Ford laughed wearily as he sat down. "That was his idea," he said.
He leaned back to listen to their talk. Sleep, he felt, was far from him. Margaret might die—that had to be kept in mind. He heard them discuss the Kafir stupidly, ridiculously. It was pothouse talk, the chatter of companionable fools, frothing round and round their topic. Their minds were rigid like a pair of stiffened corpses set facing one another; they never reached an imaginative hand towards the wonder and pity of the matter. And Margaret—the beautiful name that it was—Margaret might die.
Half an hour later, Mr. Samson slewed his monocle towards him.
"Sleepin' after all," he remarked. "Poor devil—no vitality. Not like you an' me, Du Preez—what?"
Ford knew he had slept when the Boer woke him in the broad daylight.
"The doctor is here," said Christian. "He says it is all right. He says—she has been done right with. She will not die."
"Thank God," said Ford.
Mr. Samson was in the room. The daylight showed the incompleteness of his toilet; he was a mere imitation of his true self. His triumphant smile failed to redeem him. The bald truth was—he was not dressed.
"Everything 's as right as rain," he declared, wagging his tousled white head. "Sit where you are, my boy; there 's nothing for you to do. Dr. Van Coller had an infernal thing he calls a motor-bicycle, and it brought him the twenty-two miles in fifty minutes. Makes a noise like a traction engine and stinks like the dickens. Got an engine of sorts, you know, and goes like anything. But the point is, Miss Harding 's going on like a house on fire. Your nigger-man and you did just the right thing, it appears."
"Where is he?" asked Ford.