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Updated: June 17, 2025
We're living on a planet which has to take the swipes of the universe, because it has permitted that corrupt, quarrelsome, and pernicious beast, man, to populate the hemispheres. Krool is staying on with me, Barry." "We're in heavy seas, and we don't want any wreckers on the shore," was the moody and nervously indignant reply. "Well, Krool's in the heavy seas, all right, too with me."
It swayed and swung, as the horses wildly took the incline of the hills, Krool's sjambok swinging above them; it struggled with the forces that dragged it higher and higher up, as though it were human and understood that it was a British gun being carried into the Boer lines.
Barry saw Krool's eyes droop before his words, and he was sure that the servant had reasons for wishing his master to go to South Africa.
"Doornkop," was the reply; and Jasmine, watching closely, fascinated by Krool's taciturnity, revolted by his immobile face, thought she saw in his eyes a glint of malicious and furtive joy.
It was one o'clock, and yet this was not the season. She had not gone to a ball, nor were these the months of late parties. As he tossed in his bed and his head turned restlessly on his pillow, Krool's face kept coming before him, and it was the last thing he saw, ominous and strange, before he fell into a heavy but troubled sleep.
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.
Barry would have given much for a flask of brandy. A tablespoonful would bring Rudyard back. A surgeon was not needed, however. Krool's hands had knowledge. Barry remembered the day when Wallstein was taken ill in Rudyard's house, and how Krool acted with the skill of a Westminster sawbones. Suddenly a bugle-call sounded, loud and clear and very near them.
As he left the rose there, his eyes wandered slowly over this retreat of rest and sleep: white robe-de-nuit, blue silk canopy, blue slippers, blue dressing-gown all blue, the colour in which he had first seen her. Slowly he turned away at last and went to his own room. But the picture followed him. It kept shining in his eyes. Krool's face suddenly darkened it. "You not ring, Baas," Krool said.
It was in this room they had met so often in those days when Rudyard was in South Africa, and where music had been the medium of an intimacy which had nothing for its warrant save eternal vanity and curiosity, the evil genius of the race of women. Here it was that Krool's antipathy to Jasmine and fierce hatred of Fellowes had been nurtured.
For a moment she stood like one transfixed, staring at the place whence he had vanished, then, with a moan, she sank in a heap on the floor, and rocked to and fro like one demented. Once the door opened quietly, and Krool's face showed, sinister and furtive, but she did not see it, and the door closed again softly.
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