"Rosa!" Sebastian was alarmed. It was clear that Rosa would not stop at patricide to protect her love. "Rosa! What are you doing with that knife?"
"I'm going to stick him with it!"
"You'll do no such thing," said Sebastian, but Flynn did not have the same faith in his daughter's restraint. Very hurriedly, he moved into a defensive position behind Sebastian. It took a a full minute for Sebastian to persuade Rosa that her assistance was not necessary and that he was capable of handling the situation on his own. Reluctantly, Rosa retreated to the veranda.
"Thanks, Bassie," said Flynn, and kicked him in his already bruised behind. It was extremely painful.
Very few people had ever seen Sebastian Oldsmith lose his temper. The last time it had happened was eight years previously; the two sixth-formers who had invoked it by forcing Sebastian's head into a toilet bowl and flushing the cistern, were both hospitalized for a short period.
This time there were more witnesses. Attracted by the cries and crash of breaking crockery, Flynn's entire following, including Mohammed and his Askari, had arrived from the compound and were assembled at the top of the lawn.
They watched in breathless wonder.
From the grandstand of the veranda, Rosa, her eyes sparkling with the strange feminine ferocity that arises in even the mildest women when their man fights for them, exhorted Sebastian to even greater violence.
Like all great storms, it did not last long, and when it was over the silence was appalling. Flynn lay stretched full length on the lawn. His eyes closed, his breathing snored softly in his throat, bursting from his nose in a froth of red bubbles.
Mohammed and five of his men carried him towards the bungalow. He lay massive on their shoulders with the bulge of his belly rising and falling softly, and an expression of unuSUal peace on his bloody face.
Standing alone on the lawn, Sebastian's features were contorted with savagery and his whole body shook as though he was in high fever. Then, watching them carry the huge, inert body, suddenly Sebastian's mood was past. His expression changed first to concern, and then to gentle dismay. "I say..." his voice was husky and he took a pace after them. "You shouldn't have kicked me." His hands opened helplessly, and he lifted them in a gesture of appeal.
"You shouldn't have done it."
Rosa came down from the veranda and walked slowly towards him. She stopped and looked up at him, half in awe, half in glowing pride. "You were magnificent," she whispered. "Like a lion." She reached up with both arms around his neck, and before she kissed him she spoke again.
"I love you, "she said.
Sebastian had very little luggage to take with him. He was wearing everything he possessed. Rosa on the other hand had boxes of it, enough to give full employment to the dozen bearers that were assembled on the lawn in front of the bungalow.
"Well," murmured Sebastian, "I suppose we should start moving."
"Yes," whispered Rosa, and looked at the gardens of Lalapanzi. Although she had suggested this departure, now that the time had come she was uncertain. This place had been her home since childhood. Here she had spun a cocoon that had shielded and protected her, and now that the time had come to emerge from it, she was afraid. She took Sebastian's arm, drawing strength from him.
"Don't you want to say good-bye to your father?" Sebastian looked down at her with the tender protectiveness that was such a new and delightful sensation for him.
Rosa hesitated a moment, and then realized that it would take very little to weaken her resolve. Her dutiful affection for Flynn, which at the moment was submerged beneath the tide of anger and resentment, could easily re-emerge should Flynn employ a little of his celebrated blarney. "No,"
she said.
"I suppose it's best! Sebastian agreed. He glanced guiltily towards the bungalow where Flynn was, presumably, still lying in state attended by the faithful Mohammed. "But do yOU think he'll be all right? I mean, I did hit him rather hard, you know."
"He'll be all right," Rosa said without conviction, and tugged at his sleeve. Together they moved to take their places at the head of the little column of bearers.
Kneeling on the floor of the bedroom, below the window sill, peering with one swollen eye through a slit in the curtain, Flynn saw this decisive move. "My God," he whispered in concern. "The young idiots are really leaving."
Rosa O'Flynn was his last link with that frail little Portuguese girl. The one person in his life that Flynn had truly loved. Now that he was about to lose her also, Flynn was suddenly aware of his feeling for his daughter. The prospect of never seeing her again filled him with dismay.
As for Sebastian Oldsmith, here no sentiment clouded his reasoning. Sebastian was a valuable business asset.
Through him, Flynn could put into operation a number of schemes that he had shelved as involving disproportionate personal risk. In these last few years Flynn had become singly aware of the depreciation that time and large inc rea quantities of raw spirit had wrought in his eyes and legs and nerves. Sebastian Oldsmith had eyes like a fish eagle, legs like a prize fighter, and no nerves at all that Flynn could discern. Flynn needed him.
Flynn opened his mouth and groaned. It was the throaty death rattle of an old bull buffalo. Peering through the curtain, Flynn grinned as he saw the young couple freeze, and stand tense and still in the sunlight. Their faces were turned towards the bungalow, and in spite of himself, Flynn had to admit they made a handsome pair; Sebastian tall above her with the body of a gladiator and the face of a poet; Rosa small beside him but with the full bosom and wide hips of womanhood. The slippery black cascade of her hair glowed in the sun, and her dark eyes were big with concern.
Flynn groaned again but softly this time. A breathless, husky sound, the last breath of a dying man, and instantly Rosa and Sebastian were running towards the bungalow.
Her skirts gathered up above her knees, long legs flying, Rosaled Sebastian up onto the veranda.
Flynn had just sufficient time to return to his bed and compose his limbs and his face into the attitude of one fast sinking towards the abyss.
"Daddy!" Rosaleaned over him, and Flynn opened his eyes uncertainly. For a moment he did not seem to recognize her, then he whispered, "My little girl," so faintly she hardly caught the words.
"Oh, Daddy, what is it?" She knelt beside him.
"My heart." His hand crawled up like a hairy spider across his belly and clutched weakly at his hairy chest. "Like a knife. A hot knife."
There was a terrible silence in the room, and then Flynn spoke again. "I wanted to... give you my... my blessing. I wish happiness for you... wherever you go. "The effort of speech was too mUch, and for a while he lay gasping. "Think of your old Daddy sometimes. Say a prayer for him."
A fat, tiny tear broke from the corner of Rosa's eye and slid down her cheek.
"Bassie, my boy." Slowly Flynn's eyes sought him, found him, and focused with difficulty. "Don't blame yourself for this. I was an old man anyway I've had my life." He panted a little and then went on painfully. "Look after her. Look after my little Rosa. You are my son now. I've never had a son."