That night Benita passed in the guesthouse, which was only a hut rather
larger than the others, while the two men slept in the waggon just
outside. She was so tired that for a long while she could not rest. Her
mind kept flying back to all the events of the day: the strange words
of that mystic old Molimo, concerning herself; the arrival of the brutal
messengers and the indaba that followed; then the sudden and awful
destruction of their spokesman at the hand of Jacob Meyer. The scene
would not leave her eyes, she saw it again and yet again: the quick
transformation of Meyer's indifferent face when the soldier began to
insult and threaten her, the lightning-like movement of his hand, the
flash, the report, the change from life to death, and the slayer's cruel
laugh. He could be very terrible, Jacob Meyer, when his passions were
roused!
And what had roused them then? She could not doubt that it was
herself--not mere chivalry towards a woman. Even if he were capable of
chivalry, merely for that he would never have taken such risk of future
trouble and revenge. No; it was something deeper. He had never said
anything or done anything, yet long ago instinct or insight had caused
Benita to suspect the workings of his mind, and now she was sure of
them.
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