He answered that he had come with a message from Quabie. This was the message: that Quabie’s eldest son had been cruelly murdered by the fat white man called “Vulture” who lived with the Heer Marais, and that he, Quabie, would have blood for blood. Still, he did not wish to kill the young white chieftainess (that was Marie) or the others in the house, with whom he had no quarrel. Therefore if we would give up the fat white man that he might make him “die slowly,” Quabie would be content with his life and with the cattle that he had already taken by way of a fine, and leave us and the house unmolested. Now, when Leblanc understood the nature of this offer he went perfectly mad with mingled fear and rage, and began to shout and swear in French. “Be silent,” I said; “we do not mean to surrender you, although you have brought all this trouble on us. Your chance of life is as good as ours. Are you not ashamed to act so before these black people?” When at last he grew more or less quiet I called to the messenger that we white folk were not in the habit of abandoning each other, and that we would live or die together. Still, I bade him tell Quabie that if we did die, the vengeance taken on him and all his people would be to wipe them out till not one of them was left, and therefore that he would do well not to cause any of our blood to flow. Also, I added, that we had thirty men in the house (which, of course, was a lie) and plenty of ammunition and food, so that if he chose to continue the attack it would be the worse for him and his tribe. On hearing this the herald shouted back that we should every one of us be dead before noon if he had his way. Still, he would report my words faithfully to Quabie and bring his answer. Then he turned and began to walk off. Just as he did so a shot was fired from the house, and the man pitched forward to the ground, then rose again and staggered back towards his people, with his right shoulder shattered and his arm swinging. “Who did that?” I asked through the smoke, which prevented me from seeing. “I, _parbleu!_” shouted Leblanc. “_Sapristi!_ that black devil wanted to torture me, Leblanc, the friend of the great Napoleon. Well, at least I have tortured him whom I meant to kill.” “Yes, you fool,” I answered; “and we, too, shall be tortured because of your wickedness. You have shot a messenger carrying a flag of truce, and that the Quabies will never forgive. Oh! I tell you that you have hit us as well as him, who had it not been for you might have been spared.” These words I said quite quietly and in Dutch, so that our Kaffirs might understand them, though really I was boiling with wrath. But Leblanc did not answer quietly. “Who are you,” he shouted, “you wretched little Englishman, who dare to lecture me, Leblanc, the friend of the great Napoleon?” Now I drew my pistol and walked up to the man.