"It appears that a young lady was lost off the coach, week before last-- much about the same place as you were—​you didn’t happen to meet her I suppose?" he leered at Vivienne with indescribable malice. She made no answer,--only with her hand sheltered her pallid face as best she could from the gleam of the fire.

"They were out looking for her some time—​nearly a week—​have given it up now, though—​but all the coach drivers have orders to keep their eyes open. They wanted to know if I had seen anything of her? But of course I said no."

Brute! was what her sick heart cried, though her lips made no sound. There was a silence. He leaned on his elbows, smiling his slow evil smile at her, and she sat perfectly still looking through her fingers at the fire and the forms of the two umfans beside it, rolled in their blankets and already sleeping. No use calling to them, she knew, and the other boys were away with the oxen. In any case, all were too much under the dominion of Roper to stand by her. She realised that she was in deadly danger—​and alone. For the first time in the last two years of proud and bitter defiance, she felt the need of some stronger spirit than her own, and in her extremity her heart turned to God with a silent cry for help.

"I forgot to tell you," said Roper softly, "that her name was Carlton, too. Isn’t that a funny thing now!"

"I don’t think so," she found courage to say, though her eyes were the eyes of a hunted thing.

"No? Now I thought it the funniest thing I ever heard," said he laughing softly, "and ever since, I have been saying to myself, `What a pity it wasn’t the young lady I found!' It would be so pleasant on an evening like this for instance, to have the society of a nice young lady! So very pleasant," he repeated, and leaned on the table looking into her eyes with some horrible meaning. "Quite alone on the veld, with no one to know or care what we did—​no one to—​interfere—​all alone with love and the daisies." With a swift movement he caught hold of the girl’s hand which was lying on the table. But the next instant he had loosed it and was on his feet.

"Who the devil--"

A man had come into the camp. Swift-footed and noiseless as a ghost, neither the dog nor the sleeping umfans had heard his coming. It was almost as if he had sprung from a neighbouring bush and Vivienne, startled as Roper by the sudden apparition, rose to her feet. But apart from his quietness, and the gleam of his light clothes, there was nothing supernatural about the tall lithe shirt-sleeved figure which with rifle on shoulder and revolver on hip, came into the firelight. Nothing supernatural either, but something indescribably soothing to the nerves of Vivienne Carlton in the sound of that cheerful, careless voice.

"Ah, gentlemen! Hope I did not startle you? I’m delighted to come upon your camp, having mislaid my own by a few miles. I shall be glad to spend the night here if you have no objection?"

Roper turned his back and with a sullen scowling face sat down again, muttering some words that sounded anything but inviting. The stranger took no offence. He also sat down opposite the girl, and began to relate how he had left his boys and gone after a buck and got too far away to bother to return that night—​and all the time he was looking steadily across the packing-case at Vivienne and she saw that he recognised her, even as she recognised him as soon as she saw his light grey eyes. It was the silent, tanned man who had left the coach at Palapye.

CHAPTER TWO.

WILD HONEY—​PART II.

The three sat round the fire awhile, unspeaking, each busy with their own thoughts. Whatever were Roper’s his face grew more sullen every moment, and the glances he cast in the direction of the new-comer were full of malignance. He looked menacingly too at Vivienne, who had suddenly taken on such a feminine appearance that he was amazed he could have been deceived so long. Her intense pallor and the dilation of her eyes through fear or excitement until they looked like great sombre pools of fire may have had something to do with the phenomena, but there she was, spite of the travesty of masculine attire, glowing like some beautiful night-blooming magnolia. And she said nothing; just sat very still behind the packing-case, watching the two men.

As for the stranger, he had taken up an easy position on one of the boxes which were always lying about the camp, and with his rifle beside him, leaning forward elbows on knees, began to fill his pipe. No hospitality of any kind was offered him. Just as he was about to light up, he gave a half glance in the direction of the girl, and for a moment she was afraid he was going to ask for her permission to smoke, but it must have been fancy on her part for he lit without speaking.

"I hope your waggons are not far off," said Roper suddenly. "For I’ve no idea of turning mine into a sort of refuge for lost dogs." His tone was extremely offensive. The other man looked at him steadily for a long moment, then said with a gentleness almost deadly:

"I don’t see any dogs about here—​except one." It is true that Roper’s pointer was asleep under the waggon not far off, but the stranger did not happen to be looking that way. Roper was at liberty to like the inference or lump it, whichever he pleased. Perhaps the cheerful flicker on the bright barrels of the stranger’s .303 helped his decision not to lump it, for his tone was less aggressive when he spoke again.

"What I mean is, I’ve had enough of picking up and feeding and lodging people who choose to get lost on the veld. I’m full up with it. I didn’t lay in provisions against such accidents."

"Oh!" said the stranger, still gently. "Have you had many of the kind?"

"Yes; one too many," was the retort.

Vivienne thought this the time and place to make a statement. "I am the unfortunate accident," she said in a low voice. "I was lost on the veld some three weeks or more ago, and this man Roper found me, and has been supplying me ever since with food and a waggon tent to sleep in. He seems to resent having to do it so much, however—​in spite of my assurance that he will be well paid—​that I should be only too glad to leave this camp if I could."

This was tantamount to an appeal and she anticipated and hoped that the stranger would immediately offer her the refuge of his camp. To her mortification, he merely looked reflective.

"I see," he said; then casually to Roper: "Well, you needn’t worry about me. I shall not encroach upon your provisions."

"Very glad to hear it," commented Roper, brusquely. "As for you, young fellah," he turned his dark glance on Vivienne, "I don’t see what you’ve got to complain of. You have always had civil treatment from me and the best of whatever was going. Fine gratitude to turn on me now!"

The girl was silent for a moment, nonplussed by the stranger’s indifference, and the thought that perhaps after all his presence there was only an accident, that he did not mean to help her, and would go off to-morrow without a word, leaving her once more in the power of Roper! She determined that at any rate he should not be in any doubt as to her position.

"I’m not complaining without cause," she said, looking at Roper scornfully; "you have repeatedly spoken most insultingly about being obliged to give me hospitality, and to-night your manner was so offensive that I was very glad to see this gentleman come into camp."