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Updated: June 3, 2025
They strip him bare to the waist, and put a bridle on his head; the bit is jammed into his mouth, and firmly buckled there, and then the circus begins. One of the guards takes the reins, usually a couple of long lengths of raw hide; another flicks the human steed on the bare ribs with a sjambok, and he is ordered to show his paces.
The skin had been scratched by Krool's insolence and the knowledge of his treachery, and the Tartar showed the sjambok his scimitar. In spite of himself, Stafford was affected by it all. He understood. This was not London; the scene had shifted to Potchefstroom or Middleburg, and Krool was transformed too.
That did not happen." "The Baas is going to South Africa." "And Mr. Fellowes?" "He went like I expec'." "He died heart failure, eh?" A look of contempt, malevolence, and secret reflection came into Krool's face. "He was kill," he said. "Who killed him?" Krool was about to shrug his shoulders, but his glance fell on the sjambok, and he made an ugly gesture with his lean fingers.
They would have made her cruelly audacious, and her temper would have known no license; but now, suddenly, she had a vision of him as he stamped down the staircase, his coat off, laying the sjambok on the shoulders of the man who had injured her so, who hated her so, and had done so over all the years. It appealed to her.
"He knows, too, what a sjambok's worth in Krool's eyes." When the two were left alone, Stafford slowly seated himself, and his fingers played idly with the sjambok. "You say you will do what you like, in spite of the Baas?" he asked, in a low, even tone. "If the Baas hurt me, I will hurt. If anybody hurt me, I will hurt." "You will hurt the Baas, eh? I thought he saved your life on the Limpopo."
Barry's anger became uneasiness, and Stafford's interest turned to anxiety. There was an instant's pause after Krool's words, and then Wolff the silent, gone wild, caught the sjambok from the hands of Barry Whalen. He made a movement towards Krool, who again suddenly shrank, as he would not have shrunk from a weapon of steel. "Wait a minute," cried Fleming, seizing the arm of his friend.
There was none of that unmanageable emotion in his features, the panic excitement, the savage disorder which were there on the day when Adrian Fellowes' letter brought the crisis to their lives; none of the barbaric storm which drove Krool down the staircase under the sjambok.
Krool's wild, sullen, trembling look sought the window, but he had no heart for that enterprise thirty feet to the pavement below. "The sjambok, Baas," he said. Once again Byng moved forward on him, and once again Krool's cry rang out, but not so loud. It was like that of an animal in torture. In the next room, Wallstein and Stafford and the others heard it, and understood.
"Police, by God!" he said; "they're too near or I'd shoot all four of you whining swine. Hell! and I've killed Grosman for nothing!" And furiously lashing his startled horse he spurred madly away, striking savagely with his sjambok at the cowering quartette as he passed.
Gert Botha lifted the heavy sjambok which he usually carried, and struck the prisoner heavily over the bare head and face. A thick, grey wheal immediately followed the blow, but Maliwe did not even wince. "Jou verdomde parmantig schepsel," cried the irate Boer. "Ik neuk jou uit jou hartnakigheid." So Maliwe was marched, carrying the corpus delicti, in to the gaol.
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