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Updated: June 8, 2025
The heavy-going eland was soon overtaken, and as it trotted to one side, was passed. It halted, but the quaggas kept on. Not only the drove kept on, but Hendrik's quagga following close at their heels; and in less than five minutes they had left the eland a full mile in their rear, and were still scouring onward over the wide plain. What was Hendrik about?
Flour, oatmeal, pork, potatoes, tea, tobacco, sugar, salt, powder, ball, shot, clothes, lines, an inch-auger, nails, knives, awls, needles, files, another axe, some tin plates, and a frying pan were selected and added to Hendrik's account. "If I was you, I'd take a windy-sash; you'll find it mighty convenient in cold weather."
Now these circumstances coming into Hendrik's mind at the moment, led him to regard the quaggas with a certain feeling of curiosity. The sudden fright which the animals took on seeing him, and the comic appearance of the four with the stumped tails, rather inclined Hendrik towards merriment, and he laughed as he galloped along.
Was he going to forsake the eland, and let it escape? Had he grown so interested in the race? Was he jealous about his quagga's speed, and determined it should beat all the others? So it would have appeared to any one witnessing the race from a distance. But one who could have had a nearer view of it, would have given a different explanation of Hendrik's conduct.
Mrs. Van Slyke had been a model. Of what? Herself? Hendrik's lover? Women in general? It was really the painting that was the model. Mrs. Van Slyke had modeled for the model. Patrick's mind began to spin. He continued his line of thought. Mathematics was a tool for making models. So was painting. Science and art had that in common.
One is, that I am dying of hunger, and should like a roast rib of that antelope I shot in the morning." "And so should I," said Hendrik, "but the jackals have saved us the trouble of eating that." Arend was now informed of the events that had occurred to his absence, and was highly amused at Hendrik's account of the misfortune that had befallen Swartboy and Congo.
The green of the mountains was so fresh, empty as one of the new canvases stacked against Hendrik's studio wall. The first people had done well, really; they deserved a celebration. It was a righteous Fourth. Martin was there at first. Where had he gone? Patrick wanted to know more about him. The music was great. And then those cops they were really the losers, the ones left out or behind.
Hendrik's horse had fallen beneath the leader, but the old chief leaped to his feet. Before he could turn a French soldier rushed up and killed him with a bayonet.
In consequence, his hands were lacerated and swollen, and he was suffering more torture than either of the others. This was not all the agony he was enduring. The fate Congo at first only conjectured had now assumed a horrible certainty. Death seemed inevitable; and Hendrik's active mind, susceptible of strong emotions, became painfully anxious at the approach of death. He feared it.
This gave Hendrik the advantage, who, heading his quagga diagonally, was soon upon the heels of the herd. It was Hendrik's intention to single out one of the bulls, and run him down leaving the others to gallop off wherever they wished. His intention was carried out; for shortly after, the fattest of the bulls shot to one side, as if to escape in that way, while the rest ran on.
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