The German made the proposal, but the widower waved his hand.

“No, nothing shall pass my lips. I should be suffocated. No, no! Speak not of food to me!”

“Pap, and a little brandy in,” said Tant’ Sannie coaxingly.

Bonaparte caught the word.

“Perhaps, perhaps — if I struggled with myself — for the sake of my duties I might imbibe a few drops,” he said, looking with quivering lip up into the German’s face. “I must do my duty, must I not?”

Tant’ Sannie gave the order, and the girl went for the pap.

“I know how it was when my first husband died. They could do nothing with me,” the Boer-woman said, “till I had eaten a sheep’s trotter, and honey, and a little roaster-cake. I know.

Bonaparte sat up on the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, and a hand on each knee, blubbering softly.

“Oh, she was a woman! You are very kind to try and comfort me, but she was my wife. For a woman that is my wife I could live; for the woman that is my wife I could die! For a woman that is my wife I could — Ah! that sweet word wife; when will it rest upon my lips again?”

When his feelings had subsided a little he raised the corners of his turned-down mouth, and spoke to the German with flabby lips.

“Do you think she understands me? Oh, tell her every word, that she may know I thank her”

At that instant the girl reappeared with a basin of steaming gruel and a black bottle.

Tant’ Sannie poured some of its contents into the basin, stirred it well, and came to the bed.

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t! I shall die! I shall die!” said Bonaparte, putting his hands to his side.

“Come, just a little,” said Tant’ Sannie coaxingly; “just a drop.”

“It’s too thick, it’s too thick. I should choke.”

Tant’ Sannie added from the contents of the bottle and held out a spoonful; Bonaparte opened his mouth like a little bird waiting for a worm, and held it open, as she dipped again and again into the pap.

“Ah, this will do your heart good,” said Tant’ Sannie, in whose mind the relative functions of heart and stomach were exceedingly ill-defined.

When the basin was emptied the violence of his grief was much assuaged; he looked at Tant’ Sannie with gentle tears.

“Tell him,” said the Boer-woman, “that I hope he will sleep well, and that the Lord will comfort him, as the Lord only can.”

“Bless you, dear friend, God bless you,” said Bonaparte.

When the door was safely shut on the German, the Hottentot, and the Dutch-woman, he got off the bed and washed away the soap he had rubbed on his eyelids.

“Bon,” he said, slapping his leg, “you’re the ’cutest lad I ever came across. If you don’t turn out the old Hymns-and-prayers, and pummel the Ragged coat, and get your arms round the fat one’s waist and a wedding-ring on her finger, then you are not Bonaparte. But you are Bonaparte. Bon, you’re a fine boy!”