Now I seemed to have had enough of this eerie conversation. Of course
it is easy to laugh at natives and their superstitions, but, after a
long life of experience, I am bound to admit that they are not always
devoid of truth. The native has some kind of sixth sense which the
civilised man has lost, or so it seems to me.

"Talking of blankets," I said in order to change the subject, "from whom
did you get these karosses?"

"From whom? Why, from the Missie, of course, baas. When I heard that
you were to sleep in the cart I went to her and borrowed them to cover
you. Also, I had forgotten, she gave me a writing for you," and he felt
about, first in his dirty shirt, then under his arm, and finally in his
fuzzy hair, from which last hiding place he produced a little bit of
paper folded into a pellet. I undid it and read these words, written
with a pencil and in French:--


"I shall be in the peach orchard half an hour before sunrise. Be there
if you would bid me farewell.--M."


"Is there any answer, baas?" asked Hans when I had thrust the note into
my pocket. "If so I can take it without being found out." Then an
inspiration seemed to strike him, and he added: "Why do you not take it
yourself? The Missie's window is easy to open, also I am sure she would
be pleased to see you."

"Be silent," I said. "I am going to sleep. Wake me an hour before the