"Oh, you young fool. Go to sleep. You may wake up more sensible," he answered, not unkindly, and restraining the impulse to tell Percival the truth then and there, but the thought that restrained him was the coming interview with Hermia on the morrow. He was naturally reluctant to give her away unless absolutely necessary, but whatever the result of that interview, he would force her to free Percival from her toils. To do him justice, the idea that such an exposure would involve himself too did not enter his mind--at least not then. "I think I will go to sleep, Hilary, as you're so beastly unsympathetic," answered the younger man good-humouredly. "But as to the waking up--well, you and I differ as to the meaning of the word `sensible.' Night-night." And soon a succession of light snores told that he was asleep, probably dreaming blissfully of the crafty and scheming adventuress who had fastened on to his young life to strangle it at the outset. But Hilary Blachland lay staring into the darkness--thinking, and ever thinking. "Confound those infernal fowls!" he muttered, as the cackling and clucking, mingled this time with some fluttering, arose outside, soon after the extinguishing of the light. But the disturbance subsided--nor did it again arise that night, as he lay there, hour after hour, thinking, ever thinking. CHAPTER EIGHT. "YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH HER." Bright and clear and cold, the morning arose. There had been a touch of frost in the night, and the house, lying back in its enclosure of aloe fence, looked as though roofed with a sheeting of silver in the sparkle of the rising sun. The spreading veldt, too, in the flash of its dewy sheen, seemed to lend a deeper blue to the dazzling, unclouded vault above. The metallic clatter of milk-pails in the cattle-kraal hard by mingled with the deep-toned hum of Kaffir voices; a troop of young ostriches turned loose were darting to and fro, or waltzing, and playfully kicking at each other; and so still and clear was the air, that the whistling call of partridges down in an old mealie land nearly a mile away was plainly audible. "Where's West?" Bayfield was saying, as three out of the four men were standing by the gate, finishing their early coffee. "Oh, he's a lazy beggar," answered Earle, putting down his cup on a stone. "He don't like turning out much before breakfast-time." "I believe you'll miss some of your fowls this morning, Earle," said Blachland. "There was a cat or something after them last night. They were kicking up the devil's own row outside our window. Percy wanted to try a shot at it, whatever it was, but I choked him off that lay because I thought it'd scare the house." "Might have been a two-legged cat," rejoined Earle. "And it isn't worthwhile shooting even a poor devil of a thieving nigger for the sake of a chicken or two." "Who are you wanting to shoot, Mr Earle?"