The man's cowardice maddened Jess, but whilst she still choked with wrath a duiker buck, which had come down from its stony home to feed upon the rose-bushes, suddenly sprang with a crash almost from their feet, passing away like a grey gleam into the utter darkness.
Jess started, then recovered herself, guessing what it was, but the miserable Hottentot, overcome with terror, fell upon the ground groaning out that it was the spook of the old Englishwoman.

He had dropped the knife as he fell, and Jess, seeing the imminent peril in which they were placed, knelt down, found it, and hissed into his ear that if he were not quiet she would kill him.
This pacified him a little, but no earthly power could persuade him to enter the tent again.
What was to be done?
What could she do?
For two minutes or more she buried her face in her wet hands and thought wildly and despairingly.
Then a dark and dreadful determination entered her mind.

The man Muller should not escape.

Bessie should not be sacrificed to him.

Rather than that, she would do the deed herself.
Without a word she rose, animated by the tragic agony of her purpose and the force of her despair, and glided towards the tent, the great knife in her hand.