Eats the fat-tailed hamel while the King lies dying;
Ha! ha! ha! lies dying! Ha! ha! ha! lies dead now!’”
Outa crooned the Jakhals’ triumph song in a weird monotone, and on the last words his voice quavered out, leaving a momentary silence among the small folk.
Pietie blinked as though the firelight were too much for his eyes. Little Jan sighed tumultuously. Willem cleared his throat.
“But how did Jakhals know that Oom Leeuw was dead?” he asked suddenly.
“He peeped over the krantz every time between the dancing and singing—like this, baasje, just like this.” Outa’s eyes, head and hands were at work. “The first time he looked, he saw Oom Leeuw rolling over and over; the next time Leeuw was scratching, scratching at the rocky krantz; then he was digging into the ground with his claws; then he was only blowing himself out—so—with long slow breaths; but the last time he was lying quite still, and then Jakhals knew.”
“Oh! I didn’t want poor Steenbokje to die,” said little Jan. “He was such a pretty little thing. Outa, this is not one of your nicest stories.”
“It’s all about killing,” said Pietie. “First Leeuw killed poor Steenbokje, who never did him any harm, and then Jakhals killed Oom Leeuw, who never did him any harm. It was very cruel and wicked.”
“Ach yes, baasjes,” explained Outa, apologetically, “we don’t know why, but it is so. Sometimes the good ones are killed and the bad ones grow fat. In this old world it goes not always so’s it must go; it just go so’s it goes.”
“But,” persisted Pietie, “you oughtn’t to have let Jakhals kill Oom Leeuw. Oom Leeuw was much stronger, so he ought to have killed naughty Jakhals.”