The German seized the churn-stick, and was about to rush round the house,
when the Boer-woman impressively laid her hand upon his arm.
"That is his head," said Tant Sannie, "that is his head."
"But what might it be?" asked the German, looking from one to the other,
churn-stick in hand.
A low hollow bellow prevented reply, and the voice of Bonaparte lifted
itself on high.
"Mary-Ann! my angel! my wife!"
"Isn't it dreadful?" said Tant Sannie, as the blows were repeated fiercely.
"He has got a letter; his wife is dead. You must go and comfort him," said
Tant Sannie at last, "and I will go with you. It would not be the thing
for me to go alone--me, who am only thirty-three, and he an unmarried man
now," said Tant Sannie, blushing and smoothing out her apron.
Upon this they all trudged round the house in company--the Hottentot maid
carrying the light, Tant Sannie and the German following, and the Kaffer
girl bringing up the rear.
"Oh," said Tant Sannie, "I see now it wasn't wickedness made him do without
his wife so long--only necessity."
At the door she motioned to the German to enter, and followed him closely.
On the stretcher behind the sacks Bonaparte lay on his face, his head
pressed into a pillow, his legs kicking gently. The Boer-woman sat down on
a box at the foot of the bed.
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