"I told you he would not kill that nigger.--See--here--" He took up the
knife which had fallen from Peter Halket's grasp, and fitted it into a
piece of the cut leather that lay on the earth.

"But you don't think--" The Colonial stared at him with wide open eyes;
then he glanced round at the Captain's tent.

"Yes, I think that-- Go and fetch his great-coat; we'll put him in it. If
it is no use talking while a man is alive, it is no use talking when he is
dead!"

They brought his great-coat, and they looked in the pockets to see if there
was anything which might show where he had come from or who his friends
were. But there was nothing in the pockets except an empty flask, and a
leathern purse with two shillings in, and a little hand-made two-pointed
cap.

So they wrapped Peter Halket up in his great-coat, and put the little cap
on his head.

And, one hour after Peter Halket had stood outside the tent looking up, he
was lying under the little tree, with the red sand trodden down over him,
in which a black man and a white man's blood were mingled.

All the rest of the night the men sat up round the fires, discussing what
had happened, dreading an attack.

But the Englishman and the Colonial went to their tent, to lie down.

"Do you think they will make any inquiries?" asked the Colonial.