prising if he turned out anything better than a Kafir spy,
were the real truth known.

These amiable hints and innuendoes, sedulously buzzed around, were not
long in reaching the object of them. But they affected his impenetrable
self-possession about as much as the discharge of a pea-shooter might
affect the back of the mail-plated armadillo. His philosophical mind
saw no earthly reason for disturbing itself about any rumours which a
pack of spiteful idiots might choose to set afloat. Hoste's advice to
him, to run two or three of these amiable gentry to earth and visit them
with a good sound kicking, only made him laugh. Why should he mind what
anybody said? If people chose to believe it they might--but if they
didn't they wouldn't, and that was all about it.

True, he was tempted, on one or two occasions, to follow his friend's
advice--and that was when Eanswyth was brought into the matter. But he
remembered that you cannot strangle a widespread slander by force, and
that short of the direst necessity the association in an ordinary row of
any woman's name is justifiable neither by expediency nor good taste.
But he resolved to get her to move down to Swaanepoel's Hoek at the very
earliest opportunity.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A ROW IN THE CAMP.

There was just this much to bear out the ill-natured comments of the
scandal-mongers, in that the re-appearance of the missing cousin had
gone very far towards consoling the young widow for the loss of the dead
husband.

The fact was that where her strongest, deepest feelings were concerned,
Eanswyth, like most other women, was a bad actress. The awful poignancy
of her suffering had been too real--the subsequent and blissful
revulsion too overpowering--for her to be able to counterfeit the one or
dissemble the other, with anything like a satisfactory result. Those
who had witnessed the former, now shook their heads, feeling convinced
that they had then mistaken the object of it. They began to look at
Eanswyth ever so little, askance.

But why need she care if they did? She was independent, young and
beautiful. She loved passionately, and her love was abundantly
returned. A great and absorbing interest has a tendency to dwarf all
minor worries. She did not, in fact, care.

Eustace, thanks to his cool and cautious temperament, was a better
actor; so good, indeed, that to those who watched them it seemed that
the affection was mainly, if not entirely, on on