“Ho! Rob,” he exclaimed, “that looks like something—a bush, is it? If so, we may find water there, who knows—eh? No, it can’t be a bush, for it moves,” he added in a tone of disappointment. “Why, I do believe it’s an ostrich! Well, if we can’t find anything to drink, I’ll try to get something to eat.”
Urging his jaded steed into a gallop, the youth soon drew near enough to discover that the object was neither bush nor ostrich, but a horseman.
The times of which we write were unsettled. Considine, although “lost,” was sufficiently aware of his whereabouts to understand that he was near the north-eastern frontier of Cape Colony. He deemed it prudent, therefore, to unsling his gun. On drawing nearer he became convinced from the appearance of the stranger that he could not be a Kafir. When close enough to perceive that he was a white man, mounted and armed much like himself, he re-slung his gun, waved his cap in token of friendship, and galloped forward with the confidence of youth.
The stranger proved to be a young man of about his own age—a little over twenty—but much taller and more massive in frame. He was, indeed, a young giant, and bestrode a horse suitable to his weight. He was clad in the rough woollen and leathern garments worn by the frontier farmers, or boers, of that period, and carried one of those long heavy flint-lock guns, or “roers,” which the Dutch-African colonist then deemed the most effective weapon in the universe.
“Well met!” exclaimed Considine heartily, as he rode up.
“Humph! that depends on whether we meet as friends or foes,” replied the stranger, with a smile on his cheerful countenance that accorded ill with the caution of his words.
“Well met, I say again, whether we be friends or foes,” returned Considine still more heartily, “for if we be friends we shall fraternise; if we be foes we shall fight, and I would rather fight you for love, hate, or fun, than die of starvation in the karroo.”
“What is your name, and where do you come from?” demanded the stranger.
“One question at a time, if you please,” answered the youth. “My name is Charles Considine. What is yours?”
“Hans Marais.”