CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

GOOD NEWS--AND SOME BAD.

"Here comes a fellow who looks as if he didn't want to use his horse
again for a day or two." And Brian shaded his eyes to watch a moving
speck rapidly approaching, but still at a considerable distance.

The hour was just before sunrise, a couple of mornings after our visit
to Kuliso, and the two of us were standing on the stoep drinking our
early cup of coffee.

"Why, it's Revell," he went on, as a look through the field-glasses
revealed the identity of the horseman, now lost to sight, now
reappearing round a bend of the hillside. "You can see the flaming halo
around his face, even from here. By jingo! I hope there's nothing
wrong. He's going at a hard gallop. Look, dad," he called through the
window. "Come out. Here's Revell coming up the kloof at such a pace
you'd think the joker whose name rhymes with his was after him."

"Perhaps he's bringing us some news," was the answer. "Well, well! We
ought to be ready for anything."

The dogs charged forward with open-mouthed clamour to greet the
advancing hoof-strokes, and in a few minutes the horseman dashed up to
the stoep.

"News!" he shouted. "News for you!"

"Bad, I suppose?" said Septimus Matterson.

"No. Good. First-rate."

Even while dismounting he had been fumbling in his pocket, and now held
out a long blue envelope. I believed I could see the recipient's
fingers slightly tremble as he tore open this, but his voice was firm
enough as he read out its contents, which set forward in terse official
phraseology that _in re_ The Queen _versus_ George Matterson, the
Solicitor-General, having examined the evidence, did not consider the
facts such as to warrant a criminal prosecution, and that the said
George Matterson had been released accordingly, and handed over to the
care of his sister. The writer then had the honour to be the
recipient's obedient servant, John Shattuck, Resident Magistrate.

"Hip--hip--hooray!" whooped Revell, flourishing his hat in the air, a
proceeding which caused his steed, which was standing, veldt-fashion,
with merely the end of the bridle resting on the ground, to throw up its
head and trot away down the kloof again, snorting vehemently, and the
dogs to assail him with frantic energy of purpose which nearly bore
disastrous fruit.

"You are a good chap to bring us the news, Revell," said Brian.
"_Magtig_, _kerel_! but you've ridden your horse to death!"

"We