t come up from
Heidelberg, and you can make your report to him. Did you find out about
the Englishman--Captain Niel? Is it true that he is dead?"

"No, he is not dead. By the way, I met _Oom_ Croft's niece--the dark
one. She is shut up there with the Captain, and she begged me to try and
get them a pass to go home. Of course I told her that it was nonsense,
and that they must stop and starve with the others."

Muller, who had been listening to this last piece of information with
intense interest, suddenly checked his horse and answered:

"Did you? Then you are a bigger fool than I thought you. Who gave you
authority to decide whether they should have a pass or not?"

CHAPTER XX

THE GREAT MAN

Completely overcome by this last remark, Hans collapsed like a
jelly-fish out of water, and reflected in his worthless old heart
that Frank Muller was indeed "a devil of a man." By this time they
had reached the door of the little house, and were dismounting, and in
another minute Hans found himself in the presence of one of the leaders
of the rebellion.

He was a short, ugly person of about fifty-five, with a big nose, small
eyes, straight hair, and a stoop. The forehead, however, was good, and
the whole face betrayed a keenness and ability far beyond the average.
The great man was seated at a plain deal table, writing something with
evident difficulty upon a dirty sheet of paper, and smoking a very large
pipe.

"Sit, _Heeren_, sit," he said, when they entered, waving the stem of
his pipe towards a deal bench. Accordingly they sat down without even
removing their hats, and, pulling out their pipes, proceeded to light
them.

"How, in the name of God, do you spell 'Excellency'?" asked the General
presently. "I have spelt it in four different ways, and each one looks
worse than the last."

Frank Muller gave the required information. Hans in his heart thought he
spelt it wrong, but he did not dare to say so. Then came another pause,
only interrupted by the slow scratching of a quill across the dirty
paper, during which Hans nearly went to sleep; for the weather was very
hot, and he was tired with his ride.

"There!" said the writer presently, gazing at his handwriting with an
almost childish air of satisfaction, "that is done. A curse on the man
who invented writing! Our fathers did very well without it; why should
not we? Though, to be sure, it is useful for treaties with the Kafirs.
I don't believe you have told