Part 6

The attitude and expression of the good dame was combative. She was stout, slovenly, and forty. And the first impression was that she had once been what her pretty daughter was now at seventeen. There is nothing of the beauty of dignified age in the Dutch woman past her prime.

"Where is your man?" asked the Tiger.

"He has gone to Richmond to sell the scaapen."

"And your sons?"

"I have no sons."

The Tiger threw open the photograph album on the table, and put his finger on a recent photo of two hairless youths in bandoliers. The likeness to the good lady in front of us was unmistakable.

"Who are these?"

"My sister's children," came the glib answer.

"Good," said the Tiger, as he slipped the photograph out. "I shall keep this. Who is the young man who opened the door."

"Bywoner."

"Good; then he can come along with us. How many boys have you on this farm?"

"They have all gone with my man."

"All right, I am going round to see--bring a candle. All right, don't make a fuss, my good lady. Don't take that lamp; the officer will stay here while I go out."

The stout frau produced a piece of paper, and laid it on the table with all the confidence of a poker-player displaying a Royal Flush. The Tiger picked it up and read:--

"This is to certify that Hans Pretorius can be implicitly trusted to give all assistance to the military authorities. He has furnished the required assurances.

"(Signed) L----, Resident Magistrate."

The Tiger held the slip of paper and photograph side by side for a moment, and then slowly lit the former in the flame of the lamp. The women and children stood solemnly and watched the blaze. Only the pretty girl showed any emotion. The faded blue of her eyes seemed to darken. She said something. It sounded like "hands opper." How the Dutch hate the English Africander!

The Tiger only laughed as he said, "You wait here, sir, while I go round the premises. Come along, Mrs Pretorius."

The Intelligence officer had not been alone five minutes before the door opened and the pretty daughter appeared with a glass of milk on a tray. The look of indignation had disappeared--a smile lurked on the pretty features. Now the Intelligence officer was tired and thirsty--a glass of milk was most refreshing. Moreover, he was an Englishman--a pretty face was not without its charms for him.

The Daughter. "Please, sir, the Kharki is taking Stephanus with him. You will not let him do that. There will be no one left to look after the farm and to protect us from the boys."

Intelligence Officer. "Who is Stephanus?"

D. "He does not stay here; he is" (then the blue eyes filled with tears)--"he is--my sweetheart!"

I. O. (softening) "But we will not hurt him; you will have him back in a few days."

D. "Who can say? You are going to make him fight, and then I shall never see him again. Oh, please, sir, don't take him" (and a hand--a fair dimpled hand--rested on the Intelligence officer's sleeve).

I. O. (moving uncomfortably) "I am afraid that I must; but no harm shall come to him, that I promise!"

D. "But he doesn't know the way, and you will shoot him if he shows you a wrong road."

I. O. "He will know all that we want him to know."

D. "Where will you want him to take you? I know he doesn't know the way."