ten o’clock
in the morning
I shot these for you and your father to eat . '' `` Come , then , and give them to him . He will thank you , '' and she led the way through the gate in the sandstone wall into the yard , where the outbuildings stood in which the riding horses and the best of the breeding cattle were kept at night , and so past the end of the long , one-storied house , that was stone-built and whitewashed , to the stoep or veranda in front of it . On the broad stoep , which commanded a pleasant view over rolling , park-like country , where mimosa and other trees grew in clumps , two men were seated , drinking strong coffee , although it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning . Hearing the sound of the horses , one of these , Mynheer Marais , whom I already knew , rose from his hide-strung chair . He was , as I think I have said , not in the least like one of the phlegmatic Boers , either in person or in temperament , but , rather , a typical Frenchman , although no member of his race had set foot in France for a hundred and fifty years . At least so I discovered afterwards , for , of course , in those days I knew nothing of Frenchmen .