"That fool of a Kaffir flourished
it about after your father shot him and cut me with it accidentally," and
he pointed to the wound on his face.
Rachel bent down and began to rub the blade against the foot of the bench
as though to clean it. He did not know what she meant by this act, yet it
frightened him.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She paused in her task and said, looking up at him:
"I do not wish that your blood should defile mine even in death," and went
on with her cleansing of the spear.
He watched her for a little while, then broke out:
"Curse it all! I don't understand you. What do you mean?"
"Ask the Zulus," she answered. "They understand me, and they will tell
you. Or if there is no time, ask my father and mother--afterwards."
Ishmael paled visibly, then recovered himself with an effort and said:
"Let us finish with all this witch-doctor nonsense, and come to business.
I had nothing to do with the death of your parents, indeed, I was wounded
in trying to protect them----"
"Then why do I see both of them behind you with such accusing eyes?" she
asked quietly.
He stalled, turned his head and stared about him.
"You won't frighten me like that," he went on. "I am not a silly Kaffir,
so give it up.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297