m, and he swiftly devised
means to be rid of Krool before harm could be done. He was certain harm
was meant--there was a look of semi-insanity in Krool's eyes. Krool
must be put out of the way before he could speak with the Baas.... But
how?

With a great effort Stafford controlled himself. Krool must be got rid
of at once, must be sent back to the prisoners' quarters and kept
there. He must not see Byng now. In a few more hours the army would
move on, leaving the prisoners behind, and Rudyard would presently move
on with the army. This was Byng's last day at Brinkwort's Farm, to
which he himself had come to-day lest Rudyard should take note of his
neglect, and their fellow-officers should remark that the old
friendship had grown cold, and perhaps begin to guess at the reason why.

"You say the Baas sent for you?" he asked presently.

"Yes."

"To sjambok you again?"

Krool made a gesture of contempt. "I save the Baas at Hetmeyer's Kopje.
I kill Piet Graaf to do it."

There was a look of assurance in the eyes of the mongrel, which sent a
wave of coldness through Stafford's veins and gave him fresh anxiety.

He was in despair. He knew Byng's great, generous nature, and he
dreaded the inconsistency which such men show--forgiving and forgetting
when the iron penalty should continue and the chains of punishment
remain.

He determined to know the worst. "Traitor all round!" he said presently
with contempt. "You saved the Baas by killing Piet Graaf--have you told
the Baas that? Has any one told the Baas that? The sjambok is the Baas'
cure for the traitor, and sometimes it kills to cure. Do you think that
the Baas would want his life through the killing of Piet Graaf by his
friend Krool, the slim one from the slime?"

As a sudden tempest twists and bends a tree, contorts it, bows its
branches to the dust, transforms it from a thing of beauty to a hag of
Walpurgis, so Stafford's words transformed Krool. A passion of rage
possessed him. He looked like one of the creatures that waited on Wotan
in the nether places. He essayed to speak, but at first could not. His
body bent forward, and his fingers spread out in a spasm of hatred,
then clinched with the stroke of a hammer on his knees, and again
opened and shut in a gesture of loathsome cruelty.

At length he spoke, and Stafford listened intently, for now Caliban was
off his guard, and he knew the worst that was meant.

"Ah, you speak of traitor--you! The sjambok for