{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20355/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20355","id":"gutenberg_20355","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20355","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Manners and customs -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Charles Klingman\n\n\n\n\n\nVROUW GROBELAAR\n\nAND HER LEADING CASES\n\nSEVENTEEN SHORT STORIES\n\nBY\n\nPERCEVAL GIBBON\n\nAUTHOR OF SOULS IN BONDAGE\n\nNEW YORK\nMcCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.\nMCMVI\n\nCopyright, 1906, by\nMcCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.\n\nPublished, January, 1906\n\nTO MY WIFE\n\nCONTENTS\n\nUNTO THE THIRD GENERATION\n\nTHE DREAM-FACE\n\nTHE AVENGER OF BLOOD\n\nTHE HANDS OF THE PITIFUL WOMAN\n\nPIET NAUDE'S TREK\n\nLIKE UNTO LIKE\n\nCOUNTING THE COLORS\n\nTHE KING OF THE BABOONS\n\nMORDER DRIFT\n\nA GOOD END\n\nVASCO'S SWEETHEART\n\nTHE PERUVIAN\n\nTAGALASH\n\nTHE HOME KRAAL\n\nTHE SACRIFICE\n\nTHE COWARD\n\nHER OWN STORY\n\n\n\nUNTO THE THIRD GENERATION\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar, you must know, is a lady of excellent\nstanding, as much by reason of family connections (for she\nwas a Viljoen of the older stock herself, and buried in her\ntime three husbands of estimable parentage) as of her\nwealth. Her farms extended from the Ringkop on the one side\nto the Holgaatspruit on the other, which is more than a\nday's ride; and her stock appears to be of that ideal\nspecies which does not take rinderpest. Her Kafirs were\nborn on the place, and will surely die there, for though\nthe old lady is firmly convinced that she rules them with a\nrod of iron, the truth is she spoils them atrociously; and\nwere it not that there is an excellent headman to her\nkraals, the niggers would soon grow pot-bellied in\nidleness.\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar is a lady who commands respect. Her\nface is a portentous mask of solemnity, and her figure is\nspacious beyond the average of Dutch ladies, so that\ncertain chairs are tacitly conceded her as a monopoly. The\ngood Vrouw does not read or write, and having never found a\nneed in herself for these arts, is the least thing\nimpatient of those who practice them. The Psalms, however,\nshe appears to know by heart; also other portions of the\nBible; and is capable of spitting Scripture at you on the\nsmallest provocation. Indeed she bubbles with morality, and\na mention of \"the accursed thing\" (which would appear to be\na genus and not a species, so many articles of human\ncommerce does it embrace) will set her effervescing with\nmingled blame and exhortation. But if punishment should\ncome in question, as when a Kafir waylaid and slew a\nchicken of hers, she displays so prolific an invention in\nexcuses, so generous a partiality for mercy, that not the\nmost irate induna that ever laid down a law of his own\ncould find a pretext for using the stick.\n\nShe lives in her homestead with some half-dozen of nieces,\na nephew or two, and a litter of grandchildren, who know\nthe old lady to the core, cozen and blarney her as they\nplease, and love her with a perfect unanimity. I think she\nsometimes blames herself for her tyrannical usage of these\ninnocents, who nevertheless thrive remarkably on it. You\ncan hardly get on your horse at the door without maiming an\ninfant, and you can't throw a stone in any direction\nwithout killing a marriageable damsel. They pervade the old\nplace like an atmosphere; the kraals ring with their\nvoices, and the Kafirs spend lives of mingled misery and\ndelight at their irresponsible hands.\n\nI do not think I need particularize in the matter of these\nyoungsters, save as regards Katje. Katje refuses to be\nignored, and she was no more to be overlooked than a tin-\ntack in the sole of your foot. She was the only child of\nVrouw Grobelaar's youngest brother, Barend Viljoen, who\ndied while lion-hunting in the Fever Country. At the time I\nam thinking of Katje might have been eighteen. She was like\na poppy among the stubble, so delicate in her bodily\nfabric, and yet so opulent in shape and coloring. She was\nthe nicest child that ever gave a kiss for the asking (you\ncould kiss her as soon as look at her), but she was also\nthe very devil to deal with if she saw fit to take a\ndistaste of you. I saw her once smack a fathom of able-\nbodied youth on both sides of the head with a lusty vigor\nthat constrained the sufferer to howl. And I have seen her\ncome to meet a man--well, me, with the readiest lips and the\nfriendliest hand in the world. Oh, Katje was like a blotch\nof color in one's life; something vivid, to throw the days\ninto relief.\n\nA stranger to the household might have put down Katje's\nbehavior towards the Vrouw Grobelaar as damnable, no less;\nand in the early days of my acquaintance with the family I\nwas somewhat tempted to this opinion myself. For she not\nonly flouted the old lady to her face, but would upon\noccasion disregard her utterly, and do it all with what I\ncan only call a swagger that seemed to demand a local\napplication of drastic measures. But Katje knew her victim,\nif such a word can be applied to the Vrouw Grobelaar, and\nnever prodded her save on her armor. For instance, to say\nthe Kafirs were overdriven and starved was nothing if not\nflattery--to say they were spoiled and coddled would have\nbeen mere brutality.\n\nWith it all, the Vrouw Grobelaar went her placid way, like\nan elephant over egg-shells. Her household did her one\nservice, at least, in return for their maintenance, and\nthat was to provide the old lady with an audience. It was\nin no sense an unwilling service, for her imagination ran\nto the gruesome, and she never planted a precept but she\ndrove it home with a case in point. As a result night was\noften shattered by a yell from some sleeper whose dreams\nhad trespassed on devilish domains. The Vrouw Grobelaar\nbelieved most entirely in Kafir magic, in witchcraft and\nsecond sight, in ghosts and infernal possession, in\ndestiny, and in a very personal arch-fiend who presided\nover a material hell when not abroad in the world on the\nwar-path. Besides, she had stores of tales from the lives\nof neighbors and acquaintances: often horrible enough, for\nthe Boers are a lonely folk and God's finger writes large\nin their lives.\n\nI almost think I can see it now--the low Dutch kitchen with\nits plank ceiling, the old lady in her chair, with an\nillustrative forefinger uplifted to punctuate the periods\nof her tale, the embers, white and red, glowing on the\nhearth, and the intent shadow-pitted faces of the hearers,\nagape for horrors.\n\nThere was a tale I heard her tell to Katje, when that\ndamsel had seen fit to observe, apropos of disobedience in\ngeneral, that her grandfather's character had nothing to do\nwith hers. The tale was in plaintive Dutch, the language\nthat makes or breaks a story-teller, for you must hang your\npoint on the gutturals or you miss it altogether.\n\n\"Look at my husband's uncle,\" said the old lady. \"A sinful\nman, forever swearing and cursing, and drinking. His farm\nwas the worst in the district; the very Kafirs were ashamed\nof it when they went to visit the kraals. But Voss (that\nwas the name of my husband's uncle) cared nothing so long\nas there was a horse to ride into the dorp on and some\nmoney to buy whiskey with. And he drank so much and carried\non so wickedly that his wife died and his girls married\npoor men and never went to stay with their father. So at\nlast he lived in the house, with only his son to help him\nfrom being all alone.\n\n\"This son was Barend Voss, a great hulking fellow, with the\nstrength of a trek-ox, and never a word of good or bad to\nthrow away on any one. But his face was the face of a\nviolent man. He had blue eyes with no pleasantness about\nthem, but a sort of glitter, as though there were live\ncoals in his brain. He did not drink like his father; and\nthese two would sit together in the evenings, the one\nbleared and stupid with liquor, and the other watching him\nin silence across the table.\n\n\"They spoke seldom to one another; and it would often\nhappen that the father would speak to the son and get not a\nword of answer--only that lowering ugly stare that had grown\nto be a way with the boy.\n\n\"I think those two men must have grown to hate each other\nin the evenings as they sat together; the younger one\ndespising and loathing his father, and the father hating\nhis son for so doing. I have often wondered how they never\ncame to blows--before they did, that is.\n\n\"One morning old Voss rode off to the dorp, and Barend\nwatched him from the door till he went out of sight in the\nkloof. All the day he was away, and when he came back again\nit was late in the night. Barend was sitting in his usual\nplace at the table scowling over his folded arms.\n\n\"Old Voss had not ridden off his liquor; and he staggered\ninto the house singing a dirty English song. He had a\nbottle in his hands, and banged it down on the table in\nfront of his son.\n\n\"'Now, old sheep's head,' he shouted, 'have a drink and\ndrop those airs of yours.'\n\n\"Barend sat where he was, and said not a word--just watched\nthe other.\n\n\"'Come on,' shouted old Voss; 'I'm not going to drink\nalone. If you won't take it pleasantly I'll make you take\nit, and be damned to you!'\n\n\"Barend sat still, scowling always. I dare say a sober man\nwould have seen something in his eyes and let be. But old\nVoss was blind to his danger, and shouted on.\n\n\"The younger man kept his horrid silence, and never moved,\ntill the father was goaded to a drunken rage.\n\n\"'If you won't drink,' he screamed, 'take that,' and he\nflung a full cupful of the spirit right in the young man's\nface.\n\n\"Then everything was in the fire. The two men fought in the\nroom like beasts, oversetting table and lamp, and stamping\ninto the fire on the hearth. Barend was mad with a passion\nof long nursing, and hewed with his great fists till the\nold man fell heavily to the ground, and lay moaning.\n\n\"Barend stood over him, glowering. 'Swine!' he said to his\nfather; 'swine and brute!  get you out of this house to the\nveld. You are no father of mine.'\n\n\"But the old man was much hurt, and lay where he had\nfallen, groaning as though he had not heard.\n\n\"'I will have you out of this,' said the son. 'If you are\ncome to die, die on the road. I had wished you dead for\nyears.'\n\n\"So he wound his hand, with the knuckles all over blood, in\nthe old man's white hair, and threw open the door with his\nother hand.\n\n\"'Out with you!' he shouted, and dragged him down the step\nand into the yard. Yes, he dragged him across the yard to\nthe gate; and when he unfastened the gate the old man\nopened his eyes and spoke.\n\n\"'Leave me here,' he said, speaking slowly and painfully.\n'Leave me here, my son. Thus far I dragged my father.'\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar, to point a weighty moral, turned her\nface upon Katje. But that young lady was sleeping soundly\nwith her mouth open.\n\n THE DREAM-FACE\n\n\"I wish,\" said Katje, looking up from her book--\"I wish a\nman would come and make me marry him.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar wobbled where she sat with\nstupefaction.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Katje, musingly casting her eyes to the\nrafters, \"I wish a man would just take me by the hand--so--\nand not listen to anything I said, nor let me go however I\nshould struggle, and carry me off on the peak of his saddle\nand marry me. I think I would be willing to die for a man\nwho could do that.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar found her voice at last. \"Katje,\" she\nsaid with deep-toned emphasis, \"you are talking wickedness,\njust wickedness. Do you think I would let a man--any man, or\nperhaps an Englishman--carry you off like a strayed ewe?\"\n\n\"The sort of man I'm thinking of,\" replied the maiden,\n\"wouldn't ask you for permission. He'd simply pick me up,\nand away he'd go.\"\n\nAt times, and in certain matters, Vrouw Grobelaar would\ndisplay a ready acumen.\n\n\"Tell me, Katje,\" she said now, \"who is this man?\"\n\nThen Katje dropped her book and, sitting upright with an\nunimpeachable surprise, stared at the old lady.\n\n\"I'm not thinking of any man,\" she remarked calmly. \"I was\njust wishing there was a man who would have the pluck to do\nit.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar shook her head. \"Good Burghers don't\ncarry girls away,\" she said. \"They come and drink coffee,\nand sit with them, and talk about the sheep.\"\n\n\"And behave as if they had never worn boots before, and\ndidn't know what to do with their hands,\" added the maiden.\n\"Aunt, am I a girl to marry a man who upsets three cups of\ncoffee in half an hour and borrows a handkerchief to wipe\nhis knees?\"\n\nNow there could be no shadow of doubt that this was an\nopen-breasted cut at young Fanie van Tromp, whose affection\nfor Katje was a matter of talk on the farms, and whose\novertures that young lady had consistently sterilized with\nridicule.\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar was void of delicacy. \"Fanie is a good\nlad,\" she said, \"and when his father dies he will have a\nvery large property.\"\n\n\"It'll console him for not adding me to his live stock,\"\nretorted Katje.\n\n\"He is handsome, too,\" continued the old lady. \"His beard\nis as black as--\"\n\n\"A carrion-crow,\" added Katje promptly.\n\n\"Quite,\" agreed the Vrouw Grobelaar, with a perfect\nunconsciousness of the unsavoriness of the suggestion.\n\n\"And he walks like a duck with sore feet,\" went on Katje.\n\"He is as graceful as a trek-ox, and his conversational\ntalents are those of a donkey in long grass.\"\n\n\"All that is a young girl's nonsense,\" observed the old\nlady. \"I was like that once myself. But when one grows a\nlittle older and fatter, and there is less about one to\ntake a man's eye,--a fickle thing, Katje, a fickle thing,--\none looks for more in a husband than a light foot and a\nsmart figure.\"\n\nKatje was a trifle abashed, for all the daughters of her\nhouse, were they never so slender, grew tubby in their\ntwenties.\n\n\"Besides,\" continued the worthy Vrouw, \"your talk is chaff\nfrom a mill. It must come out to leave the meal clean.\nPerhaps, after all, Fanie is the man to carry you off. I\nthink you would not take so much trouble to worry him if\nyou thought nothing of him.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar had never heard of Beatrice and her\nBenedick, but she had a notion of the principle.\n\n\"I hate him,\" cried Katje with singular violence.\n\n\"I think not,\" replied the old lady. \"Sometimes the thing\nwe want is at our elbows, and we cannot grasp it because we\nreach too far. Did I ever tell you how Stoffel Struben\nnearly went mad for love of his wife?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Katje, unwillingly interested. \"He was something\nof a fool to begin with,\" commenced the Vrouw Grobelaar.\n\"He chose his wife for a certain quality of gentleness she\nhad, and though I will not deny she made him a good wife\nand a patient, still gentleness will not boil a pot. He was\na fine fellow to look at; big and upstanding, with plenty\nof blood in him, and a grand mat of black hair on top. He\nmoved like a buck; so ready on his feet and so lively in\nall his movements. He might have carried you off, Katje,\nand done you no good in the end.\n\n\"He was happy with his pretty wife for a while, and might\nhave been happy all his life and died blessedly had he but\nbeen able to keep from conjuring up faces in his mind and\nfalling in love with them. Greta, his wife, had hair like\ngolden wheat, so smooth and rippled with light; and no\nsooner had he stroked his fill of it than he conceived nut-\nbrown to be the most lovely color of woman's hair. Her eyes\nwere blue, and for half a year he loved them; then hazel\nseemed to him a better sort. I said he was a fool, didn't\nI?\n\n\"So his marriage to Greta became a chain instead of a\nunion, while the poor lass fretted her heart out over his\ndark looks and short answers. He was shallow, Katje,\nshallow; he had the mere capacity for love, but it was a\nshort way to the bottom of it. You will see by and by that\nthe men who deserve least always want most. Stoffel had no\nright to a woman at all; when he had one, and she a good\ngirl, he let his eyes rove for others.\n\n\"So he went about his farm with his mind straying and his\nheart abroad. If you spoke to him, he paused awhile, and\nthen looked at you with a start as though freshly waked. He\nsaw nothing as he went, neither his wife with the questions\nin her eyes that she shamed to say with her lips, nor the\nchild that crowed at him from her arms. He was deaf and\nblind to the healthy world, to all save the silly dreams\nhis poisoned soul fed on.\n\n\"Well, wicked or not, it is at least unsafe not to look\nwhere one is going. This was a thing Stoffel never did:\nsince he overlooked his wife, it was not to be expected he\nwould see a strand of fencing-wire on the ground. So he\nrode on to it, and down came his horse. Down came Stoffel\ntoo, and there was a stone handy on the place where his\nhead lit to let some of the moonshine out of him. He saw a\nheavenful of stars for a moment, and then saw nothing for a\nlong time.  Save--one strange thing!\n\n\"When life came back to him he was in his bed very sore and\nempty, and very mightily surprised to see himself alive,\nafter all. He was exceedingly weak and somewhat misty as to\nhow it all had happened. But one thing he seemed to\nremember--more than seemed, so strong, so plain, so deep was\nhis memory of it. He thought he recalled pain and\nblindness, and a sudden light, in which he saw a face close\nto his, a girl's face, pitiful, tender, loving, and charged\nwith more than all the sweetness of beauty that his sick\nheart could long for. The thing was like one of those\ndreams from which one wakes sad and thoughtful, as when one\nhas overstepped the boundary mark of life and cast an eye\non heaven.\n\n\"It was no face that he knew, and he turned on his pillow\nto think of it. He could not believe it was a dream. 'It\nwas a soul,' he said to himself. 'I knew, I was sure, that\nsomewhere there was such a face, but it only came to my\neyes when I was on the borderland of death. If ever God\ngave a thing to a mortal man, he should have given me that\nwoman.'\n\n\"So with such blasphemous thoughts he idled through the\ndays of his sickness, very quiet, very weak, and kind to\nhis wife beyond the ordinary.  Of course she, poor woman,\nknew nothing of the silly tale, and when her husband gave\nher those little caresses one would not withhold from an\naffectionate dog, she blessed God that he was come to\nhimself again. You see, Katje dear, that as a man demands\nmore than he can claim with right, a woman must often make\nshift with less. It is well to learn this early.\n\n\"Stoffel grew well in time, and got about again. But the\nstone had made less of a dent in his skull than the face in\nhis heart, and he was changed altogether. He served a false\ngod, but served it faithfully. He was very gentle and\npatient with every one, almost like a saint, and he took\ninfinite pains with the work of his farm. He would hurt no\nliving thing--not even so much as lash a team of lazy oxen.\nYou would have thought Kafirs would have done as they\npleased with him, but they obeyed his least word, and hung\non his eyes for orders as though they worshipped him.\nKafirs and dogs will sometimes see farther than a\nChristian.\n\n\"Meanwhile Greta came to die. It was a chill, perhaps, with\na trifle of fever on top of that, and it carried her off\nlike a candle-flame when it is blown out. She died well--\nvery well indeed. None of your whimpering and moaning and\nslinking out of the back-door of life when nobody is\nlooking; nor that unconscious death that shuts out a chance\nof a few last words. No; Greta saw with her eyes and spoke\nwith her mouth to the last, then folded her hands and died\nas handsomely as one would wish to see. She prayed a\ntrifle, as she should; forgave her brother's wife for\nspeaking ill of her, and hoped her tongue would not lure\nher to destruction. I have heard her brother's wife never\nforgave her for it.\n\n\"On the last day she sent everybody out of the room save\nonly Stoffel, and him she held by the hand as he sat beside\nthe bed. She knew she was drawing to her end (the dying\nalways know it) and feared nothing. But there was a matter\nshe wanted to know.\n\n\"'Stoffel,' she said when they were alone, won't you tell\nme now who that woman is?'\n\n\"'What woman?' said Stoffel amazed, for of his dream in his\nsickness he had spoken to no living soul.\n\n\"She stroked his hand and shook her head at him.  Ah,\nStoffel,' she said, 'it is long since I first made place\nfor that woman, and if I grudged her you, I never grudged\nyou her. I was content with what you gave me, Stoffel; I\nthought you right, whatever you did, and I go to God still\nthinking so. All our life, Stoffel, she prevailed against\nme, and I submitted; but now, at this last moment, I want\nto have the better of it. Tell me, who was it?'\n\n\"And Stoffel, looking on the floor, answered, 'I swear to\nyou there was no woman.'\n\n\"She replied, 'And ere the cock crows thou shall deny me\nthrice.' She turned her head and looked at him with a\npitiful drawn smile that would have dragged tears from a\ndemon. 'Was she dark, Stoffel? I am fair, you know; but my\nhair--look at it, Stoffel,--my hair is golden. Did you never\nnotice it before? She was tall, I suppose? Well, I am\nsomething short, but, Stoffel, I am slender, too. Will you\nnot so much as tell me her name, Stoffel? It is not as if I\nblamed you.'\n\n\"A truth, hardly won, is always set on a pile of lies. 'How\ndo you know there was a woman?' asked Stoffel.\n\n\"'How?' she repeated. 'How I know! Stoffel, you never had a\nthought I did not know; never a hope but I hoped it for\nyou, nor a fear but I thought how to safeguard you. I never\nlived but in you, Stoffel.\n\n\"'Let us speak nothing but the truth now,' she went on.\n'You and I have always been beyond the need for lies to one\nanother, and as I wait here for you to tell me, I have one\nhand in yours and the other in Christ's. Let me not think\nhardly of her as I go.'\n\n\"'You would not curse her?' he said quickly. \"'Not even\nthat' she answered, smiling a little. 'And if you will not\ntell me, I will die even content with that, since it is\nyour wish.'\n\n\"'Listen,' said Stoffel then. And forthwith, looking\nbackwards and forwards in shame and sorrow, he told the\ntale. He told how he saw a face, which laid hold on his\nlife ever after, how it governed and compelled him with the\nmere memory, and hung in his mind like a deed done. And he\nalso told how he hoped after death to see that face with\nthe eyes of his soul, and dwell with it in heaven.\n\n\"When he had finished he cast a glance at his wife. She was\nlying on her back, holding his hand still, and smiling up\nto the ceiling with a pleasant face of contentment.\n\n\"'Can you forgive me?' he cried, and would have gone on to\nprotest and explain, but she pressed his hand and he was\nsilent.\n\n\"'Forgive you!' she said at last. 'Forgive you! No; but I\nwill bless you for all of it. So it seems I have won after\nall, but now I wish I had let be. It was no spirit you saw,\nStoffel. There was a woman there, and while you lay white\nand lifeless she held you in her arms, and bent over you.\nAnd just for one moment you opened your eyes and saw her,\nwhile her face was close to yours. Then you died again, and\nremained so for a day and a night Was there love in her\neyes, Stoffel?'\n\n\"'Love!' cried Stoffel, and fell silent.\n\n\"In a minute he spoke again. 'I am helpless,' he said, 'and\nyou are strong. But, curse and hate me as you will, you\nmust tell me who this woman was.'\n\n\"'A little time since it was I that asked,' she said, 'and\nyou would not tell me.'\n\n\"'I beseech you,' he said.\n\n\"'You shall never ask twice,' she answered gently. 'I will\ntell you, but not this moment.'\n\n\"So for a while they sat together, and the sun began to go\ndown, and blazed on the window-panes and on the golden hair\nof the dying woman. She lay as if in a mist of glory, and\nsmiled at Stoffel. He, looking at her, could not lack of\nbeing startled by the beauty that had come over her face\nand the joy that weighed her eyelids.\n\n\"She stirred a little, and sighed. Stoffel cast an arm\nround her to hold her up, and his heart bounded woefully\nwhen he felt how light she was. Her head came to his\nshoulder, as to a place where it belonged, and their lips\nmet.\n\n\"'Shall I tell you now?' she said in a whisper.\n\n\"Stoffel did not answer, so she asked again. 'Will you\nknow, Stoffel?'\n\n\"'No,' he answered. 'I'm cured.'\n\n\"'I will tell you, then,' she cried. 'No,' he repeated.\n'Let it be.'\n\n\"So together they sat for a further while, and the time\ngrew on for going. She was to die with the sun; she had\nsaid it. And as they sat both could see through the window\nthe sun floating lower, with an edge in its grave already,\nand the rim of the earth black against it. The noises of\nthe veld and the farm came in to them, and they drew closer\ntogether.\n\n\"Neither wept; they were too newly met for that. But\nStoffel felt a dull pain of sorrow overmastering him, and\nsoon he groaned aloud.\n\n\"'My wife, my wife,' he cried.\n\n\"She rested wholly on his arm, and shivered a little.\n\n\"'Stoffel,' she said in a voice that henceforth was to\nwhisper forever, 'Stoffel, you love me?'\n\n\"'As God sees me,' he answered. \"'Listen,' she said, and\nfought with the tide that was fast drowning her words.\n'That face--you--saw . . . was . . . mine!'\n\n\"She smiled as his arm tightened on her, and died so\nsmiling.\"\n\nThere was silence in the shadowy room as the tale finished,\nuntil it was broken by the Vrouw Grobelaar.\n\n\"You see?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Katje, very quietly.\n\n THE AVENGER OF  BLOOD\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar entered in haste, closed the door, and\nsat down panting.\n\n\"If my last husband were alive,\" she said--\"if any of them\nwere alive, that creature would be shot for looking at an\nhonest woman with such eyes,\" and she cast an anxious\nglance over her shoulder.\n\n\"What is it?\" demanded Katje.\n\n\"That old Hottentot hag.\" responded the old lady. \"She\nlooks like a witch, and I am sure she is a witch. I would\nmake the Kafirs throw her on to the veld, but you can't be\ntoo careful with witches. Why, as I came in just now, she\nwas squatting by the door like a big toad, and her eyes\nmade me go cold all through.\"\n\nKatje made a remark.\n\n\"What! You say nonsense!\" The old lady pricked herself into\nan ominous majesty. \"Nonsense, indeed! Katje, beware of\npride. Beware of puffing yourself up. Aren't there witches\nin the Bible, and weren't they horrible and wicked? Didn't\nKing David see the dead corpses come up out of the ground\nwhen the witch crooked her finger, like dogs running to\nheel? Well, then!\n\n\"Oh, I know,\" continued the old lady, as Katje tossed a\nmutinous head.  \"They've taught you a lot in that school,\nbut they didn't teach you belief. Nor manners. You're going\nto say there are no witches nowadays.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" said Katje.\n\n\"Yes, you are,\" pursued the Vrouw Grobelaar. \"I know you.\nBut you're wrong. You don't know anything. Young girls in\nthese days are like young pigs, all squeak and fight, but\nno bacon. Didn't the brother of my half-brother's wife die\nof a witch's devilry?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know,\" returned hapless Katje.\n\n\"Well, he did. I'll tell you.\" The old lady settled herself\ncomfortably and lapsed into history.\n\n\"His name was Fanie, and he was a Van der Merwe on his\nfather's side, but his mother was only a Prinsloo, though\nher mother was a Coetzee, for the matter of that. He wasn't\nwhat I should call good--at least, not always; but he was\nvery big and strong, and made a lot of noise, and folk\nliked him. The women used to make black white to prove that\nthe things he did and said were proper things, although\nthey'd have screamed all night if their own men-folk had\ndone the same. They say, you know,\" said the Vrouw\nGrobelaar, quoting a very old and seldom-heard Dutch\nproverb, \"that when women pray they think of God as a\nhandsome man.\n\n\"What I didn't like about him was his way with the Kafirs.\nA Kafir is more useful than a dog after all, and one\nshouldn't be always beating and kicking even a dog. And\nFanie could never pass a Kafir without kicking him or\nflicking his whip at him. I have seen all the Kafirs run to\ntheir kraals when they saw him riding up the road.\n\n\"There was one old Kafir we had,--very old and weak, and no\nuse at all. He used to sit by the gate all day, and mumble\nto himself, and seem to look at things that weren't there.\nHis head was quite white with age, which is not a common\nthing with Kafirs, as you know; and he was so foolish and\nhelpless that his people used to feed him with a spiked\nstick, like a motherless chicken. And in case the fowls\nshould go and sit on his back while he crouched in the sun,\nas I have seen them do, there was a little Kafir picaninny,\nas black as a crow, that was sent to play about near him\nevery day. Dear Lord! I have seen those two sitting there,\nlooking at each other for an hour on end, without a word,\nas though both had been children or both old men.  Nobody\nminded them: we used to throw sugar to the picaninny, and\nwatch him fighting with the fowls for it, rolling about on\nhis little black belly like a new-hatched duckling himself.\n\n\"Well, Fanie, ... it was horrible. . . .\n\n\"I don't like to think of it to this day. He came over one\nday in a great hurry to tell us that August de Villiers,\nthe father of the Predikant at Dopfontein, was choked with\na peach-stone. He was riding very fast, and as he came near\nthe house he rode off the road and jumped his horse at the\nwall. And as he came over, up rose the little picaninny\nright under his horse's hoofs. 'Twas a quick way to die,\nand without much pain, no doubt; but a most awful thing to\nsee. The horse stumbled on to him, and I can remember now\nhow his knee, the near knee, crushed the little Kafirs\nchest in. The little black legs and arms fought for a\nmoment, and then the horse struggled up, and he was dead.\n\n\"Fanie seemed sorry. He couldn't help killing the\npicaninny, of course, and perhaps we had grown rather\nfoolish about him, having watched him and laughed at him so\nlong. So Fanie got off his horse and came in to tell us the\nnews.\n\n\"When we went out the horse was standing at the door where\nFanie had left it. But the old Kafir was kneeling by the\nsteps fingering its hoofs, which were all bloody, and as\nFanie came forward he put out his hands and left a little\nspot of blood on Fanie's shoes.\n\n\"Fanie stood for a moment, and his face went white as paper\nover his black beard. He knew, you see. But in a flash he\nwent red as fire, and lashed the old man across the face\nwith his whip. The old man did not move at all; but my\nbrothers held Fanie and called to the Kafirs to come and\nfetch the old man away. Oh, but I promise you Fanie was\nangry, as men will be when they are obliged to be good by\nforce.\n\n\"Well, that was all that happened that day. Fanie went\naway, and we all saw that he galloped the horse as fast as\nit could go. But down by the kraals the Kafirs who were\ncarrying the old man stopped and watched him as he went.\n\n\"Well, in a few days most of us forgot the ugly business,\nthough the little picaninny used to walk through my dreams\nfor a time. Still, blood-kin are blood-kin, and Kafirs are\nKafirs, and one day Fanie came over to see us again and we\ngave him coffee. He told us a story about a rooinek that\nbought a sheep, and the man gave him a dog in a sack, and\nhe paid for it and went away, and we all laughed at it. He\nwas very funny that day, and said that when he married he\nwould choose an old woman who would die quickly and leave\nhim all her farms. So it was late and dark before he up-\nsaddled to go away.\n\n\"Well, he was gone a quarter of an hour when we heard\nhoofs, galloping, galloping, hard and furious, coming up\nthe road. And as we opened the door a horse came over the\nwall and Fanie tumbled off it and came rushing in.\n\n\"We all screamed. He was white like ashes, and wet with\nsweat, and trembling so that he could not stand.\n\n\"'Fanie,' cried my sister, 'what is it?' and he groaned and\nput his face in his hands.\n\n\"By and by he spoke, and kept glancing about him and\nturning to look behind him, and would not let one of us\nmove away.\n\n\"'There was something behind me,' he said.\n\n\"'Something?' we all asked.\n\n\"'Yes,' he said. 'Something . . . dead I It followed me up\nhere, and I could not get away from it, spur as hard as I\nwould. I think it is a death-call.'\n\n\"Then we were all frightened, but we could not help wanting\nto hear more.\n\n\"'No,' said Fanie, 'I did not see it, nor hear it even, but\nI knew it was there.'\n\n\"'It was a sign,' said my mother, a very wise old woman.\n'Let us all thank God.'\n\n\"So we thanked God on our knees, but I'm sure I don't know\nwhat for.\n\n\"Then Fanie told us all he knew, and that was just nothing.\nAs he came to the kloof he was afraid of something in front\nof him. He said he felt like a man in grave-clothes. So he\nturned, and then the ... whatever it was . . . seemed to\ncome after him; so he galloped and galloped as hard as the\nhorse could lay hoof to the earth, and prayed till his\nheart nearly burst. And then, not knowing where he was\ngoing, he jumped the wall and came among us. We were all\nsilent when he had told us.\n\n\"Then Oom Jan spoke. He was very old, and seldom said\nanything.\n\n\"'You have done murder!' he said.\n\n\"'If I talk till my mouth is stopped with dust I shall\nnever be able to tell how cold I felt about the heart when\nI heard that. For the little picaninny came plain before my\neyes, and oh! I was all full of pity for Fanie. I liked him\nwell enough in those days.\n\n\"He stopped with us that night. He would not go away nor be\nalone, so he slept with my brothers, and held their hands\nand prayed half the night. In the morning they took him\nhome on one of our horses, for his own was fit to die from\nthe night's work.\n\n\"That was the last I ever saw of Fanie. It was as though he\nwent from us to God. He kissed me on both cheeks when he\nwent away; he kissed us all, but me first of all, and held\nboth my hands. I think he must have liked me too,--don't you\nthink so, Katje?\" \"'Yes,\" said Katje softly.\n\n\"He went down the road between my brothers with his head\nbent like an old man's, and I watched him out of sight, and\nI was very, very sorry for him. I don't think I cried, but\nI may have. He was a fine tall man.\n\n\"One night my brothers came in just as I was going to bed,\nand one stood in the door while the other whispered to my\nmother. She looked up and saw me standing there.\n\n\"'Go to bed,' she said.\n\n\"'What is it?' I asked.\n\n\"'Go to bed,' said my brother.\n\n\"'No.' I said. 'Tell me, is it Fanie?'\n\n\"My brother looked at me and threw up his hand like a man\nwho can do no more. 'Yes,' he said.\n\n\"Then I knew, as though he had shouted it out, that Fanie\nwas dead. I cannot say how, but I knew it.\n\n\"'He is dead,' I said. 'Bring him in here.'\n\n\"So they went out and carried Fanie in with his clothes all\ndraggled and his beard full of mud. They laid him on the\ntable, and I saw his face. . . . Dear God! . . There was\nterror on that face, carven and set in dead flesh, that set\nmy blood screaming in my body. Sometimes even now I wake in\nthe night all shrinking with fear of the very memory of it.\n\n\"But there is one thing more.  We went about to put\neverything in order and lay the poor corpse in decency, and\nwhen we started to pull off his veldschoen, as I hope to\ndie in my bed, there was a little drop of blood still wet\non the toe.\n\n\"I think God's right hand was on my head that night that I\ndid not go mad.\n\n\"I heard the tale next morning.  My brothers, coming home,\nfound him ... it . . . in a spruit, already quite dead.\nThere was no horse by, but his spoor led back a mile to\nwhere the horse lay dead and stiff. When it fell he must\nhave run on, ... screaming, perhaps, . . . till he fell in\nthe spruit. I would like to think peace came to him at the\nlast; but there was no peace in the dead face.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar dropped her face on to her hands, and\nKatje came and passed an arm of sympathy and protection\naround her.\n\n\nTHE HANDS OF THE PITIFUL WOMAN\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar had no opinion of Kafirs, and was\nforever ready to justify herself in this particular.\n\n\"Kafirs,' she said, 'are not men, whatever the German\nmissionaries may say. I do not deny we have a duty to them,\nas to the beasts of the field; but as for being men, well,\na baboon is as much a man as a Kafir is.\n\n\"Kafirs are made to work, and ought to work. Katje, what\nare you laughing about? Did not the dear God make\neverything for a purpose, and what is the use of a Kafir if\nhe is not made to work? Work for themselves? Katje, you are\nlearning nothing but rubbish at that school, and I will not\nhave you say such things. How could the Burghers work the\nfarms if they had not the Kafirs? Well, be silent, then.\n\n\"Oh, I know the Kafirs. I have seen hundreds of them--yes,\nand for the matter of that, thousands. Just beasts, they\nare,--nothing--else. Did you hear how the Vrouw Coetzee came\nto die? Well, I will tell you, and you will see that we\nmust hold the Kafirs with a hand of iron or they will\ndestroy us.\n\n\"It was a time when Piet Coetzee was away making laws in\nPretoria, and the Vrouw Coetzee, who was only married one\nyear, was alone on the farm with her little baby. There\nwere plenty of Kafirs to do the work; but, you see, there\nwas no man to have an eye to them, and take a sjambok to\nthem when they needed it. So one day the Kafirs came in\nfrom the lands and would not work any more.\n\n\"Why wouldn't they work? How should I know? Who can tell\nwhy a Kafir does anything? Perhaps a witch-doctor had come\namong them. Perhaps the German missionaries had been\ntalking foolishness to them. Perhaps it began at a beer-\ndrink with some boasting by the young men before the girls.\nWho can say? But however it was, they came in and sat down\nbefore the house, and just waited there.\n\n\"Vrouw Coetzee came out with her baby on her arm and spoke\nto them; but not one moved a finger or answered a word.\nThey sat still where they were and watched her, and others\ncame from the huts and sat down too, until there were close\non a hundred Kafirs before the house. Vrouw Coetzee watched\nthem come, and as she stood in the door the two Kafir girls\nwho worked about the house pushed her aside and went and\nsat down too.\n\n\"Then Vrouw Coetzee, looking at the dumb black faces and\nwhite eyes, got frightened and went backwards into the\nhouse and closed the door. She put down the baby and drew\nthe iron bar across the door inside. From there she went to\nthe door at the back, and to all the windows, and closed\nand secured them as far as possible. Then she took down the\nold elephant-gun from the wall, and finding Piet's pouch\nand the bullets, she loaded it and laid it on the table.\nAll the time the Kafirs made no sign, and from the keyhole\nshe saw them still sitting in silence, watching the house.\n\n\"When midday came she made some food ready to eat, and then\ncame a bang at the door.\n\n\"'What is it you want?' she cried, without opening.\n\n\"'Liquor!' cried one of the Kafirs. 'You have some brandy\nin the house. Give it to us, or we will come and take it\nand kill you at the same time.'\n\n\"'I have no brandy,' she cried, 'and when my husband comes\nback I will tell him to shoot you all.'\n\n\"The Kafirs laughed, and one of the house-girls called out,\n'There is brandy; we have seen it.'\n\n\"Then the Kafirs all began to shout together, and banged\nthe door with their knobkerries. 'Give us the brandy!' they\nshouted, and she heard a stone smash through a window\nagainst the shutters.\n\n\"The Vrouw Coetzee was a brave woman, and she hated Kafirs;\nbut, looking at the baby, she thought it best to give them\nthe brandy.\n\n\"'Stand away from the window,' she cried, 'and I will put\nthe brandy outside; but if one of you comes near me I will\nshoot.'\n\n\"So she placed the brandy on the sill outside the window.\nThe Kafirs were standing about in groups, looking very\nfierce, but they saw the elephant-gun and did nothing.  But\nas she barred the shutter again, she heard them rush up and\nsnatch the bottles.\n\n\"Watching through the keyhole of the door, she saw them\ntroop off to the huts, shouting and capering and waving the\nbottles in the air. They came to the door no more that day,\nbut she heard them howling in the kraal as the brandy began\nto inflame them.\n\n\"When it got dark she sat down with her face to the door,\nher child in her arms. The howling of the Kafirs was wilder\nthan ever, and shrieks of women mingled with the uproar.\nThe Vrouw Coetzee trembled there in the dark as she\nremembered stories of the Kafir wars, and how the Kafirs\nhad treated the white women and children they caught on the\nfarms.\n\n\"Late in the night the Kafirs came back and commenced to\nhammer on the door again.\n\n\"'Give us more brandy,' they shouted.\n\n\"'I have no more,' she said. 'I have given you all.'\n\n\"'You lie!' they screamed. 'If you do not give us more we\nwill come and kill you and tear your baby to pieces.'\n\n\"Then the Vrouw Coetzee began to tremble, and, putting down\nthe child, took the big gun in her hands.\n\n\"'That is you, Kleinbooi,' she cried out, recognizing the\nvoice of one of the Kafirs.  'Why do you behave like this?\nWhat will the baas say when he comes back?'\n\n\"'We do not care for the baas,' they replied. 'If you do\nnot give us the brandy we will break in your door.'\n\n\"'I have no more,' she said again, and straightway the\nKafirs commenced to hammer at the door.\n\n\"The Vrouw Coetzee raised the gun to her shoulder and\npointed it at the door. Her arms were trembling so that she\ncould not keep it steady; so, going close up to the door,\nshe rested the muzzle on the iron bar. Then she pulled the\ntrigger.\n\n\"The gun went off with a roar and filled the room with a\nstifling smoke. The baby began to cry, but she paid it no\nattention till the gun was loaded again. Then, as she\nsnatched up her child and soothed it, she heard wailing and\nscreaming from outside, where the heavy bullet had done its\nwork.\n\n\"The Kafirs left her at peace for about an hour, and the\nnoise of the wounded sank to a sobbing. At last a voice\nhailed her again.\n\n\"'We will kill you now,' it said. 'You have shot two men,'\nand she was assailed with a string of horrid names such as\nonly a Kafir can think of.\n\n\"'Where are you?' she called, terrified.\n\n\"'Here,' came the reply, and a little stone fell down the\nchimney.\n\n\"'I will shoot!' she screamed, taking up the gun; but the\nKafir on the roof answered with only a laugh.\n\n\"'It will do no good,' he replied. 'We shall kill you, burn\nyou in a fire slowly, scald you with boiling water, cut you\nin little pieces,' and he went on to threaten the lone\nwoman with the most fiendish and ghastly outrages, such as\nI dare not even give a name to.\n\n\"The low devilish voice on the roof went on. 'And your\nbaby, vile thing!  You shall see it writhe in the flames,\nand hear it cry to you, and watch the blood spout from its\nskin. You shall see the dogs tearing it, while you lie in\nanguish, powerless to aid it. Yes, we will kill the child\nfirst, and slowly--slowly! It shall cry a long time before\nit shall die at last.'\n\n\"Then the Vrouw Coetzee, calling aloud on God, pointed the\ngun and fired through the roof. There was a laugh again,\nand before the smoke cleared a big Kafir dropped down the\nwide chimney and rushed at her.\n\n\"Her gun was empty, but the Vrouw Coetzee was the worthy\nwife of a good Boer, and she raised the heavy weapon and\nstruck him down. He rolled, face upward, on the floor, and\nas he lay she struck him again. He kicked once or twice\nwith his legs and clutched with his hands; and then he lay\nstill and died.\n\n\"It was their plan, you see, that she should fire off her\ngun and then be taken before she had time to recharge it.\n\n\"'Have you got the woman, Martinus?' called a Kafir from\noutside.\n\n\"'No,' cried the Vrouw Coetzee;  Martinus has not got the\nwoman, for I have killed him. Who comes next?'\n\n\"There was a while of silence then, till she heard them\nmoving about again and talking among themselves. Not daring\nto think what they would do next, she stood hearkening,\nwith the great gun on her arm. At length came a sound that\nfroze the blood in her body. She heard the sheet-iron on\nthe roof grate as it was dragged off. Then she dropped the\ngun at her feet and knew that her time was come.\n\n\"I cannot tell you in so many words what she did in the\nnext minutes, for my tongue refuses the tale. But the\nKafirs did not get into the house. By this time the news of\ntheir doings was gone abroad, and as the roof was being\ntaken off the house, some Burghers arrived with guns, and\nwith them my husband. Of course they shot most of the\nKafirs that they could find, and then, being unable to get\nany answer to their shouts, they broke in the door of the\nhouse and entered.\n\n\"My husband used to weep as he told of what they found. The\nVrouw Coetzee was sitting in a chair, smiling with her eyes\nclosed, and her baby was lying in the crutch of her left\narm.  Her right hand was on his little soft throat--his face\nblue and swollen, and his little arms stretched out with\ntight closed fists. He was quite dead, but warm yet, for he\nhad missed life by but a few minutes.\n\n\"No, the Vrouw Coetzee was not dead. She died a year after;\nbut all that while she went witless, always smiling and\nseeming to look for something.\n\n\"So you see that, after all, a Kafir is--Katje, what are you\ncrying about?\"\n\n PIET NAUDE'S TREK\n\nOn Sunday afternoons the Vrouw Grobelaar's household gave\nitself up, unwillingly enough, to religious exercises. The\ngirls retired to their rooms in company with the works of\ncertain well-meaning but inexpressibly dreary authors, and\nit is to be inferred they read them with profit. The\nchildren sat around the big room with Bibles, their task\nbeing to learn by heart one of the eight-verse\narticulations of the 119th Psalm, while the old lady\nmeditated in her armchair and maintained discipline. Those\nwere stern times for the young students: to fidget in one's\nseat was to court calamity; even to scratch oneself was a\nrisky experiment. David got little credit as a bard in that\nassembly.\n\nBut the work once done, the stumbling recitation dared and\nachieved, there were compensations, for the Vrouw Grobelaar\nwas then approachable for a story. To be sure, the Sunday\nafternoon stories were known to all the children almost by\nheart, but what good tale will not bear repetition? The\nhistory of Piet Naude's Trek was an evergreen favorite, and\nbore a weighty moral.\n\nThe old lady began this story in the only possible way.\n\"Once upon a time, long before the Boers came to the\nTransvaal, there lived a man named Piet Naude. He was a\ntall, strong Burgher, with a long beard that swept down to\nhis waist, and a moustache like bright gold that drooped\nlower than his chin. His eye was so clear that he could see\nthe legs of a galloping buck a mile away; his hand was so\nsure that he never wasted a bullet; and his heart was so\ngood and true that all the Burghers loved him and followed\nhim in whatever he did.\n\n\"Well, when the English came to the Burghers and wanted\nthem to pay taxes for their farms that they had won in\nbattle from the Kafirs, all the men in Piet Naude's country\nwere very angry and said, 'Let us take our guns and shoot\nthe English into the sea, so that the land will be clear of\nthem.' Everybody was willing, and but for Piet Naude there\nwould have been a great and bloody war, and all the English\nwould have been killed.\n\n\"But Piet Naude said, 'Brothers, have patience. When we\nfought the Kafirs we beat them, but many of us were killed\nalso. If we fight the English, many more will be killed,\nand we are not too many now. But I will tell you what we\nwill do. We will not pay this tax. We will inspan our oxen\nand load up our wagons, and we will take our sheep and our\ncattle and our horses, and trek to the north until we find\na place where we can live in peace; and thus we shall have\na country of our own and pay no taxes to anybody.'\n\n\"As soon as the Burghers heard this they were agreed, and\nchose out Piet Naude to lead them to the new country. So\nwhen the English came to collect the tax they found nobody\nto pay, but only an empty country, with trampled cornlands\nand burned homesteads, and wild Kafirs living in the\nkraals.\n\n\"But Piet Naude and his Burghers trekked steadily on with\nthe wagons and the cattle,--sometimes through a fine level\ncountry full of water and game, and sometimes through a\nsavage wilderness of rocks and dangerous beasts. The sun\nscorched them by day and the mists froze them by night;\nsome died by the way, and some were killed by lions, and\nsome bitten by snakes. But month after month they held on,\ncrawling slowly over the desolate face of that great new\ncountry, till at length the ragged weary men cried out and\nsaid they would go no farther.\n\n\"'Let us go back to the grass-lands and water,' they said,\n'and let us live there, else we shall die, forgotten of\nGod, in this inhospitable wilderness.' But Piet Naude\nwrought with them, saying, 'Let us keep good hearts and\nhold on. In time we shall surely come to the best place of\nall, where we shall gain cattle and sheep and prosper all\nour lives.' And after he had talked with them for a long\ntime, and shamed them with their weakness, they were\npersuaded, and once again they faced the great unknown\ncountry and trekked on.\n\n\"But one hot day one of the Burghers who had ridden away to\nlook for meat came galloping back. 'Over yonder,' he said,\npointing with his hand, 'there is a wide kloof, with a\nstream in it. There is grass there as long and thick as the\nbest pasture of our farms, with trees and wild fruit, and\neverything plentiful and beautiful. Without doubt it will\nlead us to such a place as we have been seeking.'\n\n\"So the wagons were turned aside, and they went forward to\nthe kloof, all the Burghers uplifted with hope, and the\nvery oxen pulling their best. But Piet Naude said nothing,\nfor he had a strange doubt in his heart, and he rode on\nanxiously. And when they came to the kloof they saw that\nall the Burgher had said was even less than true. The veld\nunderfoot was soft and tender as satin, and the grass was\nfresh and green. On each side the tall hills cast back the\nsun, so that the beautiful cool shade fell like a blessing\non their scorched faces. There was wild hemp {dagga} for\nthe Kafirs to smoke; and wild apricots running over the\nstones; water splashing, clear and fresh, beside the way;\nmimosa-trees to give wood for the fires; and everywhere\nthey saw the spoor of every kind of buck. The Burghers were\noverwhelmed with gladness, and pushed on gaily.\n\n\"On the next day the kloof widened out, and they came forth\ninto a most wonderful plain girt round with steep cliffs,\nand all overgrown with grass and trees. At a little\ndistance they saw cattle grazing wild, and big herds of\nbuck roaming in the open. Birds started without fear from\nunder their feet, and in the streams fish swam plain to\nsee.\n\n\"Then Piet Naude said, 'Brothers, let us go away from this\nplace. I am afraid of all I see. God did not send all this\nwealth easy to our hands at no cost of labor. Let us go\naway lest we be entrapped into some devilishness.' But the\nothers laughed him down and would not listen to him, saying\nhis brain was rotten in his head with the long trek and the\nsun.\n\n\"So there they stayed and built themselves houses and\nkraals, and set about gathering the hay and catching\ncattle. But everything fell out so easily and all they\nneeded came so plentifully that there grew over them a sort\nof sloth, and they slept without shame in the hours of\nwork, and gave no attention to the future.\n\n\"Then by degrees it began to be noticed that they were\ngrowing fat. Soon they had bellies like sows, and their\nnecks and their limbs became so great that they were\nobliged to go about without clothes, like the wild Kafirs\nand the brutes that perish. And when one of them would lie\ndown, his fatness so burdened him that without help he\ncould scarcely rise to his feet. None were spared: even the\ngodly Piet Naude was as great as an ox; but the difference\nwas, he felt shame for it all, whereas the others felt\nnone.\n\n\"Many a time he implored them to inspan and leave the\nplace; but each time they cried him down. And when he said\nhe would go himself, they reminded him that it was he who\nhad urged them to trek, and asked him if he would now\ndesert them. So for a while he stayed.\n\n\"But at length he resolved he would no longer be bound, and\nhe called to know who would go with him. But as he spoke a\nstorm came up, and the wind screamed and the rain threshed,\nand the poor fat creatures waddled off to their houses, and\nof all that people only one stayed to go with Piet Naude.\nIt was a young Burgher whose name was Hendrik Van der\nMerwe, a decent lad; and the two set off together.\n\n\"But when they came to the beautiful kloof they were amazed\nat the work of the storm. The wind had torn great boulders\nfrom the hills and rolled them down; and the rain had\nchurned the earth into mud, and washed the roots of the\ntrees loose; so that where everything had once been so fair\nand orderly there was now a crazy wilderness of rocks and\nthorns and mud.\n\n\"But they breasted the obstacles gallantly, those two\nalone; and at hazard of their lives they climbed over and\nunder great rocking crags, cutting their hands and tearing\ntheir feet with the sharp stones and the thorns of the\nmimosas. But as they went they saw with delight that their\nfatness dwindled from them, and their limbs fell back to\ntheir old shapeliness, while the blubber on their cheeks\nretreated from their eyes and left them free as before.\n\n\"So after three days of climbing and slipping and\nscrambling, the rain and the wind ceased, and they came\nforth into the country beyond, tall and slender as they\nwere before.\"\n\nThis, in reality, is the end of the story, but the children\nare wont to ask in chorus what the two heroes did next.\n\n\"They went back,\" says Vrouw Grobelaar, omitting all\ndetails of how the return was accomplished; \"and when the\nBurghers went forth on the Great Trek, they went with them,\nand lived long, had many children, and then died happy and\nwere buried.\"\n\n\"And what is the moral?\" asked little Koos, who supplies\nthe part of the Greek chorus.\n\n\"The moral,\" replies the old lady in her most impressive\nmanner, \"is that you should obey your elders, learn your\npsalms, get up early, shut the door after you, tell the\ntruth, and blow your nose.\"\n\nIt will thus be seen that for a truly comprehensive parable\nthe above would be hard to beat.\n\n LIKE UNTO LIKE\n\nFor the most part the Vrouw Grobelaar's nephews and nieces\nwere punctually obedient. Doubtless this was policy; for\nthe old lady founded her authority on a generous complement\nof this world's goods. However, man is as the grass of the\nfield (as she would constantly aver); and it fell that\nFrikkie Viljoen, otherwise a lad of promise, became\nenamored of a girl of lower caste than the Grobelaars and\nViljoens, and this, mark you, with a serious eye to\nmarriage. Even this, after a proper and orthodox reluctance\non the part of his elders and betters, might have been\ncondoned; for the Viljoens had multiplied exceedingly in\nthe land, and the older sons were not yet married. But, as\nthough to aggravate the business, Frikkie took a sort of\nglory in it, and openly belauded his lowly sweetheart.\n\n\"Mark you,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar with tremendous\nsolemnity, \"this choice is your own. Take care you do not\nfind a Leah in your Rachel.\"\n\nFrikkie replied openly that he was sure enough about the\ngirl.\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar shook a doubtful head. \"Her grandfather\nwas a bijwohner,\" she said. \"Pas op! or she will one day go\nback to her own people and shame you.\"\n\nThe misguided Frikkie saw fit to laugh at this.\n\n\"Oh, you may laugh! You may laugh, and laugh, until your\ntime comes for weeping. I tell you, she will one day return\nto her own people, bijwohners and rascals all of them, as\nStoffel Mostert's wife did.\"\n\nThe old lady paused, and Frikkie defiantly demanded further\nparticulars.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued the Vrouw Grobelaar, \"I remember all the\ndisgrace and shame of it to this day, and how poor Stoffel\nwent about with his head bowed and looked no one in the\nface. He had a farm under the Hangklip, and a very nice\nfarm it was, with two wells and a big dam right up above\nthe lands, so that he had no need for a windmill to carry\nhis water. If he had stuck to the farm Stoffel might have\nbeen a rich man; and perhaps, when he was old enough to be\nlistened to, the Burghers might have made him a feldkornet.\n\n\"But no!  He must needs cast his eyes about him till they\nfell on one Katrina Ruiter, the daughter, so please you, of\na dirty takhaar bijwohner on his own farm. He went mad\nabout the girl, and thought her quite different from all\nother girls, though she had a troop of untidy sisters like\nherself galloping wild about the place. I will own she was\na well-grown slip of a lass, tall and straight, and all\nthat; but she had a winding, bending way with her that\nstruck me like something shameless. For the rest, she had a\nlot of coal-black hair that bunched round her face like the\nframe round a picture; but there was something in the color\nof her skin and the shaping of her lips and nostrils, that\nmade me say to myself, 'Ah, somewhere and somewhen your\npeople have been meddling with the Kafirs.'\n\n\"Black? No, of course she wasn't black. Nor yet yellow; but\nI tell you, the black blood showed through her white skin\nso clearly that I wonder Stoffel Mostert did not see it and\ndrive her from his door with a sjambok.\n\n\"But the man was clean mad, and, spite of all we could do,--\nspite of his uncle, the Predikant; spite of the ugly dirty\nfamily of the girl herself,--he rode her to the dorp and\nmarried her there; for the Predikant, godly man, would not\nturn a hand in the business.\n\n\"Now, just how they lived together I cannot tell you for\nsure; for you may be very certain I drank no coffee in the\nhouse of the bijwohner's daughter. But, by all hearings,\nthey bore with one another very well; and I have even been\ntold that Stoffel was much given to caressing the woman,\nand she would make out to love him very much indeed.\n\n\"Perhaps she really did? What nonsense! How can a\nbijwohner's baggage love a well-to-do Burgher? You are\ntalking foolishness. But anyhow, if there was any trouble\nbetween them, they kept it to themselves for close upon a\nyear.\n\n\"Then (this is how it has been told to me) one night\nStoffel woke up in the dark, and his wife was not beside\nhim.\n\n\"'Is it morning already?' he said, and looked through the\nwindow.  But the stars were high and bright, and he saw it\nwas scarcely midnight.\n\n\"He lay for a while, and then got up and drew on his\nclothes--doing everything slowly, hoping she would return.\nBut when he was done she was not yet come, and he went out\nin the dark to the kitchen, and there he found the outer\ndoor unlocked and heard the dog whining in the yard.\n\n\"He took his gun from the beam where it hung and went\nforth. The dog barked and sprang to him, and together they\nwent out to the veld, seeking Katrina Ruiter.\n\n\"The dog seemed to know what was wanted, and led Stoffel\nstraight out towards the Kafir stad by the Blesbok Spruit.\nThey did not go fast, and on the way Stoffel knelt down and\nprayed to God, and drew the cartridges from the gun. Then\nthey went on.\n\n\"When they got to the spruit they could see there was a big\nfire in the stad and hear the Kafirs crying out and beating\nthe drums. The dog ran straight to the edge of the water,\nand then turned and whined, for there was no more scent.\nBut Stoffel walked straight in, over his knees and up to\nhis waist, and climbed the bank to the wall of the stad.\n\n\"Inside the Kafirs were dancing. Some were tricked out with\nornaments and skins and feathers; some were mother-naked\nand painted all over their bodies. And there was one, a\ngaunt figure of horror, with his face streaked to the\nlikeness of a skull, and bones hanging clattering all about\nhim. They capered and danced round the fire like devils in\nhell, and behind them the men with the drums kept up their\nnoise and seemed to drive the dancers to madness.\n\n\"And suddenly the figures round the fire gave way, save the\none with the painted face and the bones; for from the\nshadow of a hut at the back of the fire came another, who\nrushed into the light and swayed wildly to the barbarous\nmusic. The newcomer was naked as a babe new born; wild as a\nbeast of the field; lithe as a serpent; and crazy to\nsavageness with the fire and the drums.\n\n\"Madly she danced, bending forwards and backwards, casting\nher bare arms above her, while the horror who danced with\nher writhed and screamed like a soul in pain.\n\n\"Stoffel, behind the wall, stood stunned and bound--for here\nhe saw his wife. He thought nothing, said nothing; but\nwithout an effort his hand ran a cartridge into the gun,\nand leveled it across the wall. He fired, and the lissome\nbody dropped limp across the fire.\"\n\nFrikkie Viljoen rose in great wrath.\n\n\"This is how you talk of my sweetheart, is it?\" he cried.\n\"Well, I will hear no more of your lies.\" And he forthwith\nwalked out of the house.\n\n\"Look at that!\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar. \"I never said a\nword about his sweetheart.\"\n\n COUNTING THE COLORS\n\nTHE horizon to the west was keen as the blade of a knife,\nand over it all the colors swam and blended in an ecstasy\nof sunset.\n\n\"There is more blood than peace in a sky like that,\"\nobserved the Vrouw Grobelaar from her armchair on the\nstoop.  \"When I was a child, I never saw a mess of fire in\nthe west but I thought it betokened the end of the world.\nAh, well, one grows wiser!\"\n\n\"Green is for love,\" said Katje. \"Do you see any green in\nthe sunset?\" I saw a mile of it edging on a sea of orange\nand a mountain of azure.\n\n\"Where?\" demanded the old lady. \"Oh, that--that's almost\nblue, which means sin in marriage. But naming the colors in\nthe sky is a wasteful foolishness, and the folk that are\nguided by them always tumble in the end. When Jan Uys was\non his death-bed, he said Dia had always been counting the\ncolors with the Irishman, and that's what caused all the\ntrouble.\"\n\nKatje sighed.\n\n\"He was a man of sixty,\" the unconscious Vrouw continued,\n\"and a Boer of the best, with a farm below the Hangklip,\nwhere my cousin Barend's aunt is now. He was a rich and\nrighteous man, too, and as upstanding and strong as any man\nof his age that I ever saw. He had buried four good wives,\nso nobody can say he wasn't a good husband, but he had a\nway with him--something heavy and ugly, like a beast or a\nKafir--which many girls didn't like. His fifth wife was Dia,\nwho came from Lord knows where, somewhere down south, and\nshe was only sixteen.\n\n\"I believe in fitting a girl with a husband when she is\nripe, and sixteen is old enough with any well-grown maid.\nBut in the case of Dia, it is a pity somebody did not stop\nto think. She was more than half a child; just a slender,\nlaughing, running thing that liked sweets and peaches\nbetter than coffee and meat, and used to throw stones. She\nthrew one at my cart, with her arm low like a boy, and hit\nmy Kafir on the neck, and then squeaked and ran to hide\namong the kraals. Yes, somebody should have stopped to\nthink before they coupled her to big Jan Uys, with his\nscowl and his red eyes and white beard, and his sixty hard\nyears behind him.\"\n\n\"I should think so, indeed,\" was Katje's comment.\n\n\"What you think is of no importance,\" retorted the old lady\nsharply. \"I think so, and that settles it. Well, it did not\ntake long for Dia to lose all the froth and foolishness\nthat were in her. The child that was more than half of her\nnature was simply trampled to death, for Jan Uys had a\nshort way of shaping his women-folk. She used to cry, they\nsay, but never dared to rebel, which I can understand,\nknowing the man and the way he had of giving an order as\nthough it were impossible for any one to disobey him. In\nparticular, she could not learn to make cheese, and spoilt\nenough milk to feed a dorp on.\n\n\"'Very well,' he said, 'if you cannot make the cheese the\nKafir woman shall do it. And you shall do her work at the\nchurn-handle. I want no idlers in my house.'\n\n\"And there he had her at the churn, grinding like a Kafir,\nfor three days in every week, a white woman and his wife.\nOnce she came to him and held out her hands.\n\n\"'Look,' she said. That was all: 'look!'\n\n\"Her fingers and her palms were flayed and raw and oozed\nblood, but he simply glanced at them.\n\n\"'You should have learned to work before,' was all his\nanswer. 'Every one pays for learning, and you pay late. Go\nback to the churn.'\n\n\"The next thing', of course, was that she was missing, but\nJan Uys was not troubled. He mounted his horse and rode out\nalong the Drifts Road, going quietly, with his pipe alight.\nIt was the road by which he had brought her from her home,\nand he knew the girl would try to go to her mother. In a\nfew miles he picked up her spoor, and found some of the\nsole of one of her shoes. A mimosa carried a shred of her\ndress, and in another place she had sat down. As he went\nfarther, he found she had sat down in many places.\n\n\"'Good,' he said. 'She is tired, and soon I shall catch\nher.'\n\n\"He came up with her twenty miles along the road, sitting\ndown again. Her hair was all about her shoulders, and her\nface was white, with the great eyes burning in it like\nthose of a woman in a fever.\n\n\"'You are ready to come back?' he asked, sitting on his\nhorse, smoking and scowling down on her.\n\n\"'What are you going to do with me?' she asked in a\ntrembling voice.\n\n\"He laughed that short ugly laugh of his. 'You are a\nchild,' he answered. 'I shall whip you.'\n\n\"Then she commenced to plead with him to let her go, to\nreturn without her, to spare her, to kill her. In the\nmiddle of it he leaned from the saddle, and caught hold of\nher arms and lifted her before him.\n\n\"'All this may stop,' he said, turning the horse. 'You have\nbrought disgrace on me; you shall be punished.' And he\ncarried her back.\n\n\"He did whip her--not brutally or terribly, I believe, as a\nman might do from wounded pride and revenge, but as a child\nis whipped, to warn it against future foolishness. And from\nthe time of that beating the course of their life changed.\nShe was no longer a child, but a very grave and silent\nwoman, not prayerful at all, as might have been hoped, but\njust still and solemn. Dreadful, I call it. Then the young\nman Moore entered their lives.\n\n\"Jan Uys was making a dam right below the Hangklip. You\nknow the dam: half of it is cut from the rock, and the\nwater all comes into it from the end. It was not a matter\nof half a dozen Kafirs with spades, like most dams, but a\nbusiness for dynamite and all kinds of ticklish and awkward\nwork. So Jan wisely did not put his own fingers to it, but\nsent to the Rand for an Uitlander to come out and burst the\nrocks; and they sent him this young fellow, the Irishman\nMoore. He was a tall youth, with hair like some of the red\nin that sunset over yonder, and a most astonishing way of\nmaking you laugh only by talking about ordinary things. And\nwhen he joked anybody would laugh, even the Predikant, who\nwas always preaching about the crackling of thorns under a\npot. With him, in a black box like a little coffin, he had\na machine he called a banjo, upon which he would play lewd\nand idolatrous music which was most pleasing to the ear;\nand he would sing songs while he played, which all ended\nwith a yell. He was good at bursting the rocks, too. He\nwould load holes full of dynamite in three or four places\nat once, and fetch tons of stone and earth out with each\nexplosion. Jan Uys was pleased with him, for the young man\ncared nothing at all for his savage looks and ugly ways,\nand called him the Old Obadiah, who was a writer of the\nBible.\n\n\"'My wife,' he told him, 'is a young woman, and sad. You\nmust talk to her in the evenings and make her laugh.'\n\n\"The Irishman looked at him with a strange face. 'The poor\ncreature needs a laugh,' he said.\n\n\"So he used to talk to her on the stoop in the evenings,\nwhile Jan sat within at his Bible, and heard the murmur of\ntheir talk without. More than once, too, he heard a sound\nthat was no longer familiar to him--the sound of Dia's\npleasant childish laughter, and he scowled at his book and\ntold himself he was satisfied. I think, perhaps, he had\nsometimes seen himself as he was, an old hard man crushing\nthe soul of a child. Vaguely, perhaps, and unwillingly, but\nstill he saw it sometimes.\n\n\"This went on. The Irishman blew up his dynamite and talked\nwith Dia and played with her. Jan, watching, saw the color\nhad returned to her cheeks and the life to her eyes. He\ncame into the kitchen once and she was singing. She stopped\nsuddenly.\n\n\"'Why do you not go on?' he asked, with his little red eyes\nstaring at her.\n\n\"She had nothing to say, and he went away, to go down to\nthe dam. The Irishman was sitting on an ant-heap away in\nthe sun, and Jan passed him without speaking, and walked\ndown to the place of explosions. He was looking at the\nmarks of fire on the rocks, when it seemed to him he heard\na shout, and he saw, as he turned his head, that the\nIrishman was standing up. But he made no beck, and Jan\nwalked along. When he looked again the young man had both\nhands to his head. Jan shaded his eyes to watch him.\n\n\"Moore walked a few paces to and fro, stood still, and\nthen, with a start, commenced to run furiously down to\nwhere Jan was standing. He ran with long strides and very\nfast, and was soon beside the old man, and seized him by\nthe arm.\n\n\"'Out of this!' he cried. 'Out of this! The holes are\nloaded, and ye've sixty seconds to save yer life.'\n\n\"Jan stood still. 'Why did you not tell me before?' he\nasked; but the other did not answer, but only dragged at\nhis arm.\n\n\"Jan shook his hand off. 'I have a mind to stay,' he said\nin a calm voice. 'If Dia is made a widow, you will know how\nto look after her.'\n\n\"'And that's true!' cried the Irishman. 'But you shan't\nmake a murderer of me.'\n\n\"And he drew back his fist and knocked the old man down.\nCatching him by the collar, he dragged him to the shelter\nof a big boulder, flung him close to it, and lay down on\ntop of his body. In the next moment the blast went off, and\nthe gust of fire and rocks and earth roared and whistled\nthrough the air above them. The sound struck them like a\nbludgeon, and they lay for a while, stunned and deafened,\nwhile pieces of stone slid and tinkled on the boulder that\nhad sheltered them. At last they rose.\n\n\"'I made a mistake and I am glad,' said Jan.\n\n\"'Will you shake hands with me?'\n\n\"'I will not,' was the answer.\n\n\"'So be it. But there can be no need to tell Dia of this.'\n\n\"The Irishman nodded, and that afternoon, again, he and Dia\nwere in the garden, throwing stones at a sardine-tin on a\nstick to see who could hit it first. Dia knocked it down\neasily, and Jan, sitting indoors with his coat off, heard\nthem laughing.\n\n\"At supper that night he looked up to Dia.\n\n\"'This coffee has a sour taste,' he said.\n\n\"'Mine hasn't,' said the Irishman.\n\n\"'Try mine, then,' said Jan, and passed Dia his cup to hand\nto him. She fumbled in taking it and dropped it on the\nfloor. The new cup that she poured out for him had no sour\ntaste.\n\n\"For several days after that there was a sour taste in many\nthings that he ate and drank, and he complained of it each\ntime.\n\n\"'You must be getting ill,' Dia said.\n\n\"'It is possible,' he answered, watching her. 'I have felt\nvery strange of late days.'\n\n\"He saw the color leave her cheeks, and a light come into\nher eyes.\n\n\"'What can it be?' he said. 'Should I have a doctor, do you\nthink?'\n\n\"'I am afraid of doctors,' she answered. 'Let me give you\nsome of my herb medicine.'\n\n\"He drank what she brought him and put the cup down.\n\n\"'I was hard to you once. Dia,' he said, 'I have been sorry\nsince.'\n\n\"That night he sent a mounted Kafir for his brother, and\nwhen, at noon next day, that brother came, Dia and her\nIrishman were already gone. But Jan would not have them\nhunted.\n\n\"'I whipped her once,' he said, 'and I am paid for it.'\n\n\"His brother, a great simple soul, was dumbfounded.\n\n\"'Do you mean that she has poisoned you?' he demanded.\n\n\"The dying man shook his head.\n\n\"'They used to count the colors,' he said. 'There was much\nof love in the colors, but there was nothing of me. Let\nthem go!'\n\n\"And so,\" concluded the Vrouw Grobelaar impressively, \"he\ndied, and it all came of counting the colors in the sunset,\nwhich is a warning to you, Katje--\"\n\n\"To count colors,\" interrupted that maiden hotly. \"I think\nthe old wretch got just what he deserved.\"\n\n THE KING OF THE BABOONS\n\nThe old yellow-fanged dog-baboon that was chained to a post\nin the yard had a dangerous trick of throwing stones. He\nwould seize a piece of rock in two hands, stand erect and\nwhirl round on his heels till momentum was obtained, and\nthen--let go. The missile would fly like a bullet, and woe\nbetide any one who stood in its way. The performance\nprecluded any kind of aim; the stone was hurled off at any\nchance tangent: and it was bad luck rather than any kind of\nmalice that guided one three-pound boulder through the\nwindow, across the kitchen, and into a portrait of Judas de\nBeer which hung on the wall not half a dozen feet from the\nslumbering Vrouw Grobelaar.\n\nShe bounced from her chair and ballooned to the door with a\nsilent swift agility most surprising to see in a lady of\nher generous build, and not a sound did she utter. She was\nof good veld-bred fighting stock, which never cried out\ntill it was hurt, and there was even something of\ncompassion in her face as Frikkie jumped from the stoop\nwith a twelve-foot thong in his hand. It was, after all,\nthe baboon that suffered most, if his yells were any index\nto his feelings. Frikkie could smudge a fly ten feet off\nwith just a flick of his whip, and all the tender parts of\nthe accomplished animal came in for ruthless attention.\n\n\"He ought to be shot,\" was Frikkie's remark as he curled up\nthe thong at the end of the discipline. \"A baboon is past\nteaching if he has bad habits. He is more like a man than a\nbeast.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar seated herself in the stoop chair which\nby common consent was reserved for her use, and shook her\nhead.\n\n\"Baboons are uncanny things,\" she answered slowly. \"When\nyou shoot them, you can never be quite sure how much murder\nthere is in it. The old story is that some of them have\nsouls and some not: and it is quite certain that they can\ntalk when they will. You have heard them crying in the\nnight sometimes. Well, you ask a Kafir what that means. Ask\nan old wise Kafir, not a young one that has forgotten the\nwisdom of the black people and learned the foolishness only\nof the white.\"\n\n\"What does it mean, tante?\" It was I that put the question.\nKatje, too, seemed curious.\n\nThe old lady eyed me gloomily.\n\n\"If you were a landed Boer, instead of a kind of\nschoolmaster,\" she replied, witheringly, \"you would not\nneed to ask such a question. But I will tell you. A baboon\nmay be wicked--look at that one showing his teeth and\ncursing--but he is not blind nor a fool. He runs about on\nthe hills, and steals and fights and scratches, and all the\ntime he has all the knowledge and twice the strength of a\nman, if it were not for the tail behind him and the hair on\nhis body. So it is natural that sometimes he should be\ngrieved to be such a mean thing as a baboon when he could\nbe a useful kind of man if the men would let him. And at\nnights, particularly, when their troop is in laager and the\nyoung ones are on watch among the high rocks, it comes home\nto the best of them, and they sob and weep like young\nwidows, pretending that they have pains inside so that the\nothers shall not feel offended and turn on them. Any one\nmay hear them in the kloofs on a windless night, and, I can\ntell you, the sound of their sorrow is pitiful.\"\n\nKatje threw out a suggestion to console them with buckshot,\nand the Vrouw Grobelaar nodded with meaning.\n\n\"To hate baboons is well enough in the wife of a Burgher,\"\nshe said sweetly. \"I am glad to see there is so much\nfitness and wifeliness about you, since you will naturally\nspend all your life on farms.\"\n\nKatje's flush was a distress signal. First blood to the\nVrouw.\n\n\"Baboons,\" continued the old lady, \"are among a farmer's\nworst enemies. They steal and destroy and menace all the\nyear round, but for all that there are many farmers who\nwill not shoot or trap them. And these, you will notice,\nare always farmers of a ripe age and sense shaped by\nexperience. They know, you may be sure. My stepsister's\nfirst husband, Shadrach van Guelder, shot at baboons once,\nand was so frightened afterwards that he was afraid to be\nalone in the dark.\"\n\nThere was a story toward, and no one moved.\n\n\"There were many Kafirs on his farm, which you have not\nseen,\" pursued the Vrouw Grobelaar, adjusting her voice to\nnarrative pitch. \"It was on the fringe of the Drakensberg,\nand many spurs of hill, divided by deep kloofs like gashes,\ndescended on to it. So plenty of water came down, and the\ncattle were held from straying by the rocks, on one side at\nany rate. The Kafirs had their kraals dotted all about the\nland; and as they were of the kind that works, my\nstepsister's husband suffered them to remain and grow their\nlittle patches of mealies, while they worked for him in\nbetween. He was, of course, a cattle Boer, as all of our\nfamily have always been, but here were so many Kafirs to be\nhad for nothing, that he soon commenced to plough great\nspaces of land and sow valuable crops. There was every\nprospect that he would make very much money out of that\nfarm; for corn always sells, even when cattle are going for\nonly seven pounds apiece, and Shadrach van Guelder was very\ncheerful about it.\n\n\"But when a farmer weighs an ungrown crop, you will always\nfind that there is something or other he does not take into\naccount. He tells of the weather and the land and the\nKafirs and the water on his fingers, and forgets to bend\ndown his thumb to represent God--or something. Shadrach van\nGuelder lifted up his eyes to the hills from whence came\nthe water, but it was not until the green corn was six\ninches high that he saw that there came with it baboons.\nArmies and republics of them; more baboons than he had\nthought to exist,--they swooped down on his sprouting lands\nand rioted, ate and rooted, trampled and wantoned, with\nthat kind of bouncing devilishness that not even a Kafir\ncan correctly imitate. In one night they undid all his work\non five sown morgen of fat land, and with the first wink of\nthe sun in the east they were back again in their kopjes,\nleaving devastation and foulness wherever they passed.\n\n\"It was my stepsister's husband that stood on one leg and\ncursed like a Jew. He was wrathful as a Hollander that has\nbeen drinking water, and what did not help to make him\ncontent was the fact that hardly anything would avail to\nprotect his lands. Once the baboons had tasted the\nsweetness of the young corn, they would come again and\nagain, camping in the kloofs overhead as long as anything\nremained for them, like a deaf guest. But for all that, he\nhad no notion of leaving them to plunder at their ease. The\nleast one can do with an unwelcome visitor is to make him\nuncomfortable; and he sent to certain kraals on the farm\nfor two old Kafirs he had remarked who had the appearance\nof cunning old men.\n\n\"They came and squatted before him, squirming and\nshuffling, as Kafirs do when a white man talks to them. One\nwas quite a common kind of Kafir, gone a little gray with\nage, a tuft of white wool on his chin, and little patches\nof it here and there on his head. But the other was a small\ntwisted yellow man, with no hair at all, and eyes like\nlittle blots of fire on a charred stick; and his arms were\nso long and gnarled and lean that he had a bestial look,\nlike a laborious animal.\n\n\"'The baboons have killed the crop on the lower lands,'\nsaid Shadrach, smacking his leg with his sjambok. 'If they\nare not checked, they will destroy all the corn on this\nfarm. What is the way to go about it?'\n\n\"The little yellow man was biting his lips and turning a\nstraw in his hands, and gave no answer, but the other\nspoke.\n\n\"'I am from Shangaanland,' he said, 'and there, when the\nbaboons plague us, we have a way with them, a good way.'\n\n\"He sneered sideways at his yellow companion as he spoke,\nand the look which the latter returned to him was a thing\nto shrink from.\n\n\"'What is this way?' demanded Shadrach.\n\n\"'You must trap a baboon,' explained the old Kafir. 'A\nleading baboon, for choice, who has a lot to say in the\ngovernment of the troop. And then you must skin him, and\nlet him go again. The others will travel miles and miles as\nsoon as they see him, and never come back again.'\n\n\"'It makes me sick to think of it,' said Shadrach. 'Surely\nyou know some other way of scaring them?'\n\n\"The old Kafir shook his head slowly, but the yellow man\nceased to smile and play with the straw and spoke.\n\n\"'I do not believe in that way, baas. A Shangaan baboon'--he\ngrinned at his companion--'is more easily frightened than\nthose of the Drakensberg. I am of the bushmen, and I know.\nIf you flay one of those up yonder, the others will make\nwar, and where one came before, ten will come every night.\nA baboon is not a fat lazy Kafir; one must be careful with\nhim.'\n\n\"'How would you drive them away, then?' asked Shadrach.\n\n\"The yellow man shuffled his hands in the dust, squatting\non his heels. There! There! See, the baboon in the yard is\ndoing the very same thing.\n\n\"'If I were the baas,' said the yellow man, 'I would turn\nout the young men to walk round the fields at night, with\nbuckets to hit with sticks, and make a noise. And I--well, I\nam of the bushmen--' he scratched himself and smiled\nemptily.\n\n\"'Yes, yes?' demanded Shadrach. He knew the wonderful ways\nof the bushmen with some animals.\n\n\"'I do not know if anything can be done,' said the yellow\nman, 'but if the baas is willing I can go up to the rocks\nand try.'\n\n\"'How?'\n\n\"But he could tell nothing. None of these wizards that have\ncharms to subdue the beasts can tell you anything about it.\nA Hottentot will smell the air and say what cattle are\nnear, but if you bid him tell you how he does it, he\ngiggles like a fool and is ashamed.\n\n\"'I do not know if anything can be done,' the yellow man\nrepeated. 'I cannot promise the baas, but I can try.'\n\n\"'Well, try then,' ordered Shadrach, and went away to make\nthe necessary arrangements to have the young Kafirs in the\nfields that night.\n\n\"They did as he bade, and the noise was loathsome,--enough\nto frighten anything with an ear in its head. The Kafirs\ndid not relish the watch in the dark at first, but when\nthey found that their work was only to thump buckets and\nhowl, they came to do it with zest, and roared and banged\ntill you would have thought a judgment must descend on\nthem. The baboons heard it, sure enough, and came down\nafter a while to see what was going on. They sat on their\nrumps outside the circle of Kafirs, as quiet as people in a\nchurch, and watched the niggers drumming and capering as\nthough it were a show for their amusement. Then they went\nback, leaving the crops untouched, but pulling all the huts\nin one kraal to pieces as they passed. It was the kraal of\nthe old white-tufted Shangaan, as Shadrach learned\nafterwards.\n\n\"Shadrach was pleased that the row had saved his corn, and\nnext day he gave the twisted yellow man a lump of tobacco.\nThe man tucked it into his cheek and smiled, wrinkling his\nnose and looking at the ground.\n\n\"'Did you get speech of the baboons last night among the\nrocks?' Shadrach asked.\n\n\"The other shook his head, grinning. 'I am old,' he said.\n'They pay no attention to me, but I will try again.\nPerhaps, before long, they will listen.'\n\n\"'When they do that,' said Shadrach, 'you shall have five\npounds of tobacco and five bottles of dop.'\n\n\"The man was squatting on his heels all this time at\nShadrach's feet, and his hard fingers, like claws, were\npicking at the ground. Now he put out a hand, and began\nfingering the laces of the farmer's shoes with a quick\nfluttering movement that Shadrach saw with a spasm of\nterror. It was so exactly the trick of a baboon, so\nentirely a thing animal and unhuman.\n\n\"'You are more than half a baboon yourself,' he said. 'Let\ngo of my leg! Let go, I say! Curse you, get away--get away\nfrom me!'\n\n\"The creature had caught his ankle with both hands, the\nfingers, hard and shovel-ended, pressing into his flesh.\n\n\"'Let go!' he cried, and struck at the man with his\nsjambok.\n\n\"The man bounded on all fours to evade the blow, but it\ntook him in the flank, and he was human--or Kafir--again in a\nmoment, and rubbed himself and whimpered quite naturally.\n\n\"'Let me see no more of your baboon tricks,' stormed\nShadrach, the more angry because he had been frightened.\n'Keep them for your friends among the rocks. And now be off\nto your kraal.'\n\n\"That night again the Kafirs drummed all about the green\ncorn, and sang in chorus the song which the mountain-Kafirs\nsing when the new moon shows like a paring from a\nfingernail of gold. It is a long and very loud song, with\nstamping of feet every minute, and again the baboons came\ndown to see and listen. The Kafirs saw them, many hundreds\nof humped black shapes, and sang the louder, while the\ncrowd of beasts grew ever denser as fresh parties came down\nand joined it. It was opposite the rocks on which they sat\nthat the singing men collected, roaring their long verses\nand clattering on the buckets, doubtless not without some\nintention to jeer at and flout the baffled baboons, who\nwatched them in such a silence. It was drooping now to the\npit of night, and things were barely seen as shapes, when\nfrom higher up the line, where the guardians of the crops\nwere sparser, there came a discord of shrieks.\n\n\"'The baboons are through the line,' they cried, and it was\non that instant that the great watching army of apes came\nleaping in a charge on the main force of the Kafirs. Oh,\nbut that was a wild, a haunting thing! Great bull-headed\ndog-baboons, with naked fangs and clutching hands alert for\nmurder; bounding mothers of squealing litters that led\ntheir young in a dash to the fight; terrible lean old\nbitches that made for the men when others went for the\ncorn,--they swooped like a flood of horror on the aghast\nKafirs, biting, tearing, bounding through the air like\nuncouth birds, and in one second the throng of the Kafirs\nmelted before them, and they were among the corn.\n\n\"Eight men they killed by rending, and of the others, some\nsixty, there was not one but had his wound--some bite to the\nbone, some gash, where iron fingers had clutched and torn\ntheir way through skin and flesh. When they came to\nShadrach, and woke him wearily with the breathless timidity\nof beaten men, it was already too late to go with a gun to\nthe corn-lands. The baboons had contented themselves with\nsmall plunder after their victory, and withdrew orderly to\nthe hills; and even as Shadrach came to the door of the\nhomestead, he saw the last of their marshaled line, black\nagainst the sky, moving swiftly towards the kloofs.\n\n\"He flung out his hands like a man in despair, with never a\nword to ease his heart, and then the old Shangaan Kafir\nstood up before him. He had the upper part of his right arm\nbitten to the bone and worried, and now he cast back the\nblanket from his shoulder and held out the quivering wound\nto his master.\n\n\"'It was the chief of the baboons that gave me this,' he\nsaid, 'and he is a baboon only in the night. He came\nthrough the ranks of them bounding like a boulder on a\nsteep hillside, and it was for me that his teeth were\nbared. So when he hung by his teeth to my arm and tore and\nsnarled, I drew my nails across his back, that the baas\nshould know the truth.'\n\n\"'What is this madness?' cried Shadrach.\n\n\"'No madness, but simple devilry,' answered the Shangaan,\nand there came a murmur of support from the Kafirs about\nhim.  'The leader of the baboons is Naqua, and it was he\nwho taught them the trick they played us tonight.'\n\n\"'Naqua?' repeated Shadrach, feeling cold and weak.\n\n\"'The bushman,' explained the old man. 'The yellow man with\nthe long lean arms who gave false counsel to the baas.'\n\n\"'It is true,' came the chorus of the Kafirs. 'It is true;\nwe saw it.'\n\n\"Shadrach pulled himself together and raised a hand to the\nlintel of the door to steady himself.\n\n\"'Fetch me Naqua!' he ordered, and a pair of them went upon\nthat errand. But they came back empty; Naqua was not at his\nhut, and none had news of him.\n\n\"Shadrach dismissed the Kafirs to patch their wounds, and\nat sun-up he went down to the lands where the eight dead\nKafirs still lay among the corn, to see what traces\nremained of the night's work. He had hoped to find a clue\nin the tracks, but the feet of the Kafirs and the baboons\nwere so mingled that the ground was dumb, and on the grass\nof the baboons' return there remained, of course, no sign.\nHe was no fool, my stepsister's first husband, and since a\nwild and belly-quaking tale was the only one that offered,\nhe was not ready to cast it aside till a better one were\nfound. At any rate it was against Naqua that his\npreparations were directed.\n\n\"He had seven guns in his house for which ammunition could\nbe found, and from among all the Kafirs on the land he\nchose a half dozen Zulus, who, as you know, will always\nrather fight than eat. These were only too ready to face\nthe baboons again, since they were to have guns in their\nhands; and a kind of ambush was devised. They were to lie\namong the corn so as to command the flank of the beasts,\nand Shadrach was to lie in the middle of them, and would\ngive the signal when to commence firing by a shot from his\nown rifle. There was built, too, a pile of brushwood lying\non straw soaked in oil, and this one of them was to put a\nlight to as soon as the shooting began.\n\n\"It was dark when they took their places, and then\ncommenced a long and anxious watch among the corn, when\nevery bush that creaked was an alarm and every small beast\nof the veld that squealed set hearts to thumping. From\nwhere he lay on his stomach, with his rifle before him,\nShadrach could see the line of ridge of rocks over which\nthe baboons must come, dark against a sky only just less\ndark; and with his eyes fixed on this he waited. Afterwards\nhe said that it was not the baboons he waited for, but the\nyellow man, Naqua, and he had in his head an idea that all\nthe evil and pain that ever was, and all the sin to be, had\na home in that bushman. So a man hates an enemy.\n\n\"They came at last. Five of them were suddenly seen on the\ntop of the rocks, standing erect and peering round for a\ntrap; but Shadrach and his men lay very still, and soon one\nof these scouts gave a call, and then was heard the pat!\npat! of hard feet as the body of them came up. There was\nnot light enough to tell one from another, except by size,\nand as they trooped down among the corn Shadrach lay with\nhis finger throbbing on his trigger, peering among them.\nBut he could see nothing except the mass of their bodies,\nand waiting till the main part of them was past him, so\nthat he could have a shot at them as they came back, should\nit happen that they retired at once, he thrust forward his\nrifle, aimed into the brown, and fired.\n\n\"Almost in the same instant the rifles of the Zulus spoke,\nand a crackle of shots ran up and down their line. Then\nthere was a flare of light as the bonfire was lit, and they\ncould see the army of baboons in a fuss of panic dashing to\nand fro. They fired again and again into the tangle of\nthem, and the beasts commenced to scatter and flee, and\nShadrach and his men rose to their full height and shot\nfaster, and the hairy army vanished into the darkness,\ndefeated.\n\n\"There was a guffaw of laughter from the Zulus, but ere it\nwas finished a shout from Shadrach brought their rifles\nleaping up again, The baboons were coming back,--a line of\nthem was breaking from the darkness beyond the range of the\nfire, racing in great leaps towards the men. As they came\ninto the light they were a sight to terrify a host, all big\ntuskers, and charging without a sound. Shadrach, aiming by\ninstinct only, dropped two as they came, and the next\ninstant they were upon him. He heard the grunt of the Zulu\nnext him as a huge beast leaped against his chest and bore\nhim down, and there were screams from another. Then\nsomething heavy and swift drove at him like a bullet and he\nclubbed his rifle. As the beast flew, with hands and feet\ndrawn in for the grapple, he hewed at it with the butt and\nsmashed it to the ground. The stock struck on bone, and he\nfelt it crush and fail, and there was the thing at his\nfeet.\n\n\"How they broke the charge, with what a frenzy of battle\nthey drove the baboons from them, none of the four who\nspoke again could ever tell. But it must have been very\nsoon after Shadrach clubbed his rifle that the beasts\nwavered, were beaten, and fled screaming, and the farmer\nfound himself leaning on his weapon and a great Zulu,\nshining with sweat, talking to him.\n\n\"'Never have I had such a fight,' the Zulu was saying, 'and\nnever may I hope for such another. The baas is a great\nchief. I watched him.'\n\n\"Something was picking at Shadrach's boots, and he drew\nback with a shudder from the form that lay at his feet.\n\n\"'Bring a stick from the fire,' he ordered. 'I want to see\nthis--this baboon.'\n\n\"As the man went, he ran a cartridge into the breach of his\nrifle, and when the burning stick was brought, he turned\nover the body with his foot.\n\n\"A yellow face mowed up at him, and pale yellow eyes\nsparkled dully.\n\n\"'Tck!' clicked the Zulu in surprise. 'It is the bushman,\nNaqua. No, baas,' as Shadrach cocked his rifle, 'do not\nshoot him. Keep him and chain him to a post. He will like\nthat less.'\n\n\"'I shoot,' answered Shadrach, and shattered the evil grin\nthat gleamed in the face on the ground with a quick shot.\n\n\"And, as I told you, my stepsister's first husband,\nShadrach van Guelder, was afraid to be alone in the dark\nafter that night,\" concluded the Vrouw Grobelaar. \"It is\nill shooting baboons, Frikkie.\"\n\n\"I'm not afraid,\" retorted Frikkie, and the baboon in the\nyard rattled his chain and cursed shrilly.\n\n MORDER DRIFT\n\nThe business was something before my time, but I can\nremember several versions of it, which were commonly\ncurrent when I first came into the Dopfontein district. It\nwas not much of a tale as a general thing, except that, if\nyou happened to have a strain of hot blood in you, it\ndiscovered a quality of very picturesque pathos. However,\nas you shall see, only the tail end of the story was\ngenerally known, and it was the Vrouw Grobelaar, the\ntransmitter of chronicles, who divulged it to Katje and\nmyself one evening in its proper proportions.\n\nAs I first heard it the tale was about thus. The drift\nacross the Dolf Spruit, below the Zwaartkop, was a ragged\ngash in the earth, hidden from all approaches by dense\nbushes of wacht een beetje thorn. The spruit was here\nthrottled between banks of worn stone, and the water roared\nover the drift at a depth that made it impassible to foot-\nfarers. Its name Morder Drift (Murder Ford), was secured to\nit no less by its savage aspect than by the incident\nassociated with it.\n\nOne morning a Kafir brought news to a farm of a strange\nthing at the drift, a tale of violent death at criminal\nhands. Straightway four men got to horse and rode over.\nArriving, they found their information justified in a\nstrange fashion. Seated in the deep southern approach to\nthe water was a Boer woman, a young one, pillowing on her\nlap the head of a murdered man, whose body oozed blood from\na dozen wounds. The woman paid no heed to the approach of\nthe Burghers, and they, on nearing the body, observed that\nher eyes were fixed across the spruit, and that a smile, a\ndreadful twisted smile of contempt, ruled her face as\nthough frozen there.\n\nThe woman was recognized as a girl of good Boer family who\nhad recently married in opposition to the strong objections\nof her family;  the dead man at her feet was soon\nidentified as all that was left of her husband.\n\nThat was the tale: it ended there like a broken string, for\nwhile the matter was under investigation at the hands of\nthe feldkornet, a Kafir chief in the Magaliesberg commenced\nto assert himself and the commando of the district was\ncalled out to wait on him. And there the matter dropped,\nfor during the two years that elapsed before she died the\nwoman never uttered a word. But (and here, for me, at any\nrate, the wonder of the story commenced) every day and all\nday, come fine or rain, sun or storm, there she would sit\nin the drift, damning the traitor's road of escape with\nthat smile the Burghers had shuddered at. The scene, and\nthe unspeakable sadness of it, used to govern my dreams.\n\nI was telling Katje the story, for she said she had never\nheard it, but this I since learned to have been untrue. At\nfirst the conversation had been varied even to the point of\ninanity, but in time it turned--as such conversations will,\nyou know--to the wonder and beauty of the character of women\nin general. I think it must have been at this stage that\nthe Vrouw Grobelaar, who had been dozing like a dog, with\none ear awake, commenced to listen; and I have always\nthought the better of the good lady for not annihilating\nthe situation with some ponderously arch comment, as was a\nhabit of hers.\n\nWhen my tale was finished, though, the contempt of the\nartist for the mere artisan moved her to complete the\nrecord.\n\n\"You are wrong when you say the truth never came to light,\"\nshe said. \"I know the whole story.\"\n\n\"But,\" I answered in surprise, \"nothing was ever done in\nthe matter.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" she said with spirit. \"It was not a Kafir\nmurder. It was a killing by Burghers, and, though God knows\nI utterly condemn all such doings, it cannot be denied that\nthere was as much on the one side as on the other.\"\n\nThe due request was proffered.\n\n\"It is not a tale to carry abroad,\" observed the old lady.\n\"It concerns some of my family. The woman was Christina van\nder Poel, a half sister of my second husband, and what I am\nnow telling you is the confession of Koos van der Poel, her\nbrother, on the day he died. I remember he was troubled\nwith an idea that he would be buried near her, and that she\nwould cry out on him from her grave to his.\"\n\nThe suggestion, as you must agree, quite justified Katje's\nmoving closer to me.\n\n\"It was like this,\" resumed the Vrouw Grobelaar, after an\nexpressionless glance at the two of us. \"Christina was a\nwild fanciful girl, with an eye to every stranger that off-\nsaddled at the farm, Katje; and she had barely a civil word\nto waste on a bashful Burgher. I can't say I ever saw much\nin her myself. She was a tall young woman, with a face that\ndrew the eye, as it were; but she was restless and unquiet\nin her motions, and, to my mind, too thin and leggy. But\nmen have no taste in these things; and if Christina had\nbeen of a decent turn, she might have had her pick of all\nthe unmarried men within a day's ride, and there used to be\nsome very good men about here.\n\n\"But, as I said, she kept them all on the far side of the\nfence, and for a long time their only comfort was in seeing\nno one else take her. Till one day a surprising thing\nhappened.\n\n\"A tall smart man rode into the farm one afternoon and hung\nup his horse on the rail. He swaggered with his great\nclumping feet right into the house, and went from one room\nto another till he found the old father.\n\n\"'Are you Mynheer van der Poel?' he asked him in a loud\nvoice, standing in the middle of the chamber with his hat\non his head and his sjambok in his hand.\n\n\"'I am,' answered the other.\n\n\"'I am John Dunn,' said the stranger. 'I have a store at\nBothaskraal, and I am come to ask for your daughter to\nwife.'\n\n\"'An Englishman?' asked the old man.\n\n\"'To be sure,' said the stranger.\n\n\"'But where have you seen the girl?' asked Mynheer van der\nPoel.\n\n\"'Oh, in many places,' replied the Englishman, laughing.\n'We are very good friends, she and I, and have been meeting\nevery evening for a long time. Indeed, you have to thank me\nfor giving you a chance to consent to the wedding.'\n\n\"Now the Heer van der Poel was always a quiet man, but\nthere was nothing weak in him.\n\n\"'I do thank you,' he said, 'for playing the part of an\nhonest man, and no doubt the girl has been foolish. A girl\nis, you know; and you are big enough to have taken her eye.\nBut there will be no marriage; Christina is to marry a\nBoer.'\n\n\"'So you object to an Englishman?' sneered the other.\n\n\"'Yes,' said the old man.\n\n\"'What have you against the English?'\n\n\"'In general, nothing at all. I have found them brave men\nand good fighters; at Potchefstroom I killed three. But,'\nand the old man held up his forefinger, 'I will not have\none in my family.'\n\n\"'I see,' said the other. 'So you refuse me your daughter?'\n\n\"'Yes,' answered the father.\n\n\"'So be it,' returned the stranger, turning to the door.\n'In that case I shall take her without your leave.' And off\nhe went at a canter, never looking back.\n\n\"Next day Mynheer van der Poel took Christina into a kraal,\nand when she had confessed her meetings with the\nEnglishman, he gave her a sound beating with a stirrup-\nleather, and told her that for the future she must not go\nalone outside of the house.\n\n\"'And either I or one of your brothers will always be at\nhome,' concluded the old man, 'so that if this Mynheer Dunn\ncomes, he will be shot.'\n\n\"So Christina for upwards of a month never saw her\nEnglishman. Of course the matter was a great scandal, and\nher people said as little as they could about it; but,\nnevertheless, it got about, and the number of visitors to\nthe farm for the next week or two was astonishing. But call\nas often as they pleased, the Englishman stayed away and\nthey saw nothing of him.\n\n\"But one morning when daylight came Christina was missing.\nThey looked about, and there was no trace of her, but in\nthe road outside there was the spoor of a cart that had\nhalted in passing during the night.\n\n\"'It is plain enough,' said the old man 'She is with her\nEnglishman at Bothaskraal. Sons, get your rifles, and we\nwill ride over.'\n\n\"But on the way they had to pass Morder Drift, and thinking\nonly of the shame to their house, they rode altogether into\nthe water, none looking ahead. There had been rains, and\neach man was compelled to give all his care to guiding his\nhorse through the torrent, while holding his rifle aloft in\none hand.\n\n\"When they were thus all in the water together they heard a\nshout, and the Englishman on a big horse rode down to the\nwater's edge. He had a gun at his shoulder covering them\nall, and they headed their horses up-stream and halted to\nhear him speak.\n\n\"He was prideful and contemptuous. 'Six of you,' he cried,\n'no less than six, who have come out to kill one man, and\nthe whole lot bottled up in the middle of a ditch and\nwaiting to be shot. The first one that moves his rifle till\nI give permission dies.'\n\n\"Not one of them answered, but all kept their eyes on him.\nOld Mynheer van der Poel had a cartridge in his rifle, and\nhe touched his horse with the spur under water that it\nmight fidget round towards the Englishman.\n\n\"'Well,' said the man on the bank, 'if I shot each one of\nyou as you sit, I should be in my right, and not one could\nblame me. But where I come from one does not shoot even a\nduck sitting, and I am going to let you go. You shall have\na chance to do the thing decently, so come back and fight\nme openly. Or,' and he laughed as he spoke, 'you can do it\nanother way. I am leaving this cursed country shortly with\nChristina. See if you can get at me and kill me before\nthen. It's a fair offer; but I warn you you'll find it a\ndangerous game, and there'll be blood-letting on the one\nside or the other.'\n\n\"He drew back his horse a little, still covering them with\nthe rifle. 'Now,' he cried, 'drop your guns into the water,\nand you can go. Drop them, I say!'\n\n\"One by one the young men let their rifles fall into the\nstream; but the old father fumbled with his finger.\nSuddenly there was a shot, and the Englishman's big horse\nshied at the spurt of mud at his feet. Of course the old\nman could not shoot without aiming.\n\n\"Then the Englishman brought round his gun, and the old\nman, sitting on his horse, with the water streaming over\nhis saddle, knew that a tremble of the finger would send\nhim to God.\n\n\"'But that you are Christina's father,' said the\nEnglishman, in a voice as clear as falling pebbles, 'I\nwould put a bullet through your white head this minute.\nThis time, though, you shall go alive, but by--! you shall\nhave your ducking.'\n\n\"And dropping his muzzle, he suddenly shot the straining\nhorse through the head, so that it fell immediately, and\nthe old man was plunged out of sight in the rushing water.\n\n\"When he got to the bank, fifty yards down the stream, the\nEnglishman was gone.\n\n\"They went home soberly, all busy with thoughts of their\nown. When they neared the home kraals the father spoke.\n\n\"'This is a business to be wiped out,' he said. 'This shame\ncannot rest with us. For my part, I could not pray with a\nclear mind and that Englishman alive.'\n\n\"They all agreed with him, though, as Koos admitted, with\nthe death-rattle shaking him, they were all dreadfully\nafraid of that big swaggering man. The old man had done a\nfair share of fighting before, and at Potchefstroom, as he\nsaid, he had killed three rooineks, so he was ready enough\nfor the business.\n\n\"But the young men had only been out against the Kafirs,\nand there is not very much in that.\n\n\"Now old Mynheer van der Poel was not such a fool as to\nrisk his life or the lives of his sons in fighting the\nEnglishman. The war against the rooineks had made him slim;\nfor it is chiefly by wits and knowledge that the Boers have\nbeaten the English. So instead of going out to be shot like\na fool, he made a plan.\n\n\"You know how Bothaskraal lies. At the back of it there is\nnothing but the Kafir country and the thorn bush; and if\nyou would get to the dorp, or to the road, or to the\nrailway, you must cross the Dolf Spruit, and for miles the\nonly crossing place is Morder Drift. So at Morder Drift\nthey set a watch, four in the day time and three in the\nnight, never losing sight of the drift.\n\n\"In this manner they waited a month till the evil night\ncame. It was a night sent by the devil's own design, a\ngruesome, cloud-heavy, sulphurous night, and at the drift\nwere the old man, Koos, and the lad Hendrik. Koos was on\nwatch among the bushes; the other two crouched below the\nbank out of the wind. A little rain dribbled down, and of a\nsudden Koos whistled like a korhaan.\n\n\"The two got their rifles and went down into the water on\nfoot, the old man up stream, the lad down, stepping\ncarefully, for the stream was very strong and pulled at\ntheir waists dangerously. Koos walked into the road, above\nthe water and in the shadow, and waited.\n\n\"Three horses came down the other side of the drift, and\nthree persons on them. The one was the Englishman, the\nother was Christina, the third a Kafir. In the darkness of\nthe drift they could not see the watchers, and in the swirl\nof the water they could not hear the click of the rifles.\n\n\"Into the water they rode, and then Koos, who had a\nmagazine rifle, suddenly stood up and shot the Kafir. He\nscreamed and fell into the water, and his horse turned and\ngalloped on.\n\n\"'Keep still, Mynheer Dunn,' cried Koos. 'A movement and\nyou are dead. Better raise your hands, I think. That is\nright. Now, Christina, ride out of the water on this side.'\n\n\"'Stay where you are, Christina,' said the Englishman.\n'Sir,' he called to Koos, 'you have trapped me sure enough,\nand I ask and expect nothing. But what are you going to do\nto Christina?'\n\n\"'Are you Christina's husband?' asked Koos. 'Are you\nmarried to her?'\n\n\"'I am,' answered the other.\n\n\"'That is well for Christina. Otherwise she would be shot.\nWe have little patience with wrongdoers, I can tell you.'\n\n\"'But what are you going to do with her?'\n\n\"'I? Nothing at all,' answered Koos. 'She is no longer my\nbusiness. It will be for Christina's father to decide what\nshall be done to her.'\n\n\"'Will you promise--' began the Englishman; but Koos\nlaughed.\n\n\"'I promise nothing,' he replied. 'In a few moments you\nwill be dead, and past bargaining. Christina, ride on.'\n\n\"'Stay a moment,' called the Englishman again. 'I will ask\nyou a favor, anyhow. It is not well to refuse a dying man,\nand perhaps in a few moments I shall have more power over\nyou. So I beg you, spare Christina.'\n\n\"'I promise nothing at all,' answered Koos. 'I am not\nafraid of ghosts.'\n\n\"'I wasn't thinking of that,' said the other. 'So I have\nnothing to gain whether by talking or holding my tongue?'\n\n\"'Nothing at all!'\n\n\"'Very well; if that be the case, take that!' and very\nsuddenly he snatched a pistol--one of those things which\nhold six bullets--from his pocket and shot Koos in the leg.\n\nChristina screamed as her horse bounded and carried her\nforward out of the water. Koos did not fall, but caught it\nby the rein and dragged her from the saddle. He held her\nclose, with his left arm about her and his rifle in his\nright hand, pistol-fashion.\n\n\"'Shoot again, rooinek,' he cried mockingly. 'You will be\nsure to hit one of us.' And then he fired.\n\n\"At the same moment Mynheer van der Poel, in the water up-\nstream, fired, and the Englishman fell on to the bow of his\nsaddle. The horse dashed down the water, and Koos, gripping\nthe screaming girl, heard young Hendrik shoot again.\n\n\"There was silence for a minute then, and Mynheer van der\nPoel climbed out of the water and called to Hendrik.\n\n\"'Have you got him?' he cried.\n\n\"'Yes,' answered the boy; 'I am holding him up, but he is\nstill alive.'\n\n\"'Can he stand?' cried the old man.\n\n\"'No,' came the answer from the water.\n\n\"'Then drown him,' commanded the father. 'I will come down\nand help.'\n\n\"When he had climbed down into the water again Koos laid\nthe girl down. She was still white; her senses had fled.\nPresently as he was binding his leg he heard the father\nsay--\n\n\"'Now raise him a little, and I will shoot again to make\nsure'; and immediately the sound of shot burst out. At this\nthe girl opened her eyes, and Koos, looking at her, saw\nwith astonishment that she smiled.\n\n\"'Have you killed him, Koos?' she asked very gently.\n\n\"'Be quiet,' answered Koos.\n\n\"'But tell me,' she persisted.\n\n\"'Yes.' he replied at length.\n\n\"She closed her eyes and sighed. 'That was cruel,' she\nsaid; 'I loved him so.'\n\n\"But she sat up again as the old father and the lad dragged\nthe body out of the water.\n\n\"'Four wounds,' panted the old man. 'Not one of us missed.\nThat was very good, considering the darkness.' And as he\nflung the bleeding corpse down he turned upon Christina.\n\n\"'Here,' he cried, calling her by a dreadful word of shame.\n'Here is your husband.'\n\n\"'Father,' said young Hendrik, 'there is money in his\npockets. If I take it people will say this was done by\nKafirs.'\n\n\"'Take it then,' said the old man, and when the boy had\nemptied the pockets he bade him throw the money into the\nstream.\n\n\"Then they mounted and rode away, but not homewards. They\nrode across the stream to cross it twenty miles down, that\ntheir spoor should not betray them.\n\n\"And as Koos told me, while his eyes glazed, he turned and\nlooked back, and there he saw Christina with the\nEnglishman's head on her lap, looking after them with a\nface that set him trembling.\"\n\nAs the old lady concluded I passed an arm round Katje.\n\n A GOOD END\n\nOne of the most awe-inspiring traits of the Vrouw Grobelaar\nwas her familiarity with the subject of death. She had a\ndiscriminating taste in corpses, and remembered of several\nold friends only the figure they cut when the life was gone\nfrom them. She was as opinionative in this regard as in all\nothers; she had her likes and dislikes, and it is my firm\nbelief to this day that she never rose to such heights of\nconversational greatness as when attending a death-bed. It\nis on record that more than one invalid was relieved of all\ndesire to live after being prepared for dissolution by the\nVrouw Grobelaar.\n\nOn the evening following the burial of Katrina Potgieter's\nbaby, which died of drinking water after a surfeit of dried\npeaches, the old lady was in great feather. Never were her\nreminiscences so ghoulish and terrifying, and never did she\nhurl her weighty moralities over so wide a scope.\nEventually she lapsed into criticism, and announced that\nthe art of dying effectively was little practiced nowadays.\n\n\"I hate to see a person slink out of life,\" she said. \"Give\nme a man or a woman that knows all clearly to the last, and\ngives other people an opportunity to see some little way\ninto eternity. After all, there's nothing more in dying\nthan changing the style of one's clothes, and even the most\npaltry folk have some consideration as corpses. I can't see\nwhat there is to be afraid of.\"\n\n\"I don't think that,\" observed Katje. \"Even if it wasn't\nthat I was soon to be dead and buried, the whole business\nseems horrible. Fancy all the people crowding round to look\nat you and cry, while they talked as if you were already\ndead. When Polly Honiball was dying, old Vrouw Meyers asked\nher if she could see anything yet. Ugh!\"\n\nThe old lady shook her head. \"That's not the way to look at\nit,\" she replied. \"A good death is the sign of a good life;\nor anyhow, that's how people judge it. It's as well to give\nno room for talk afterwards, Katje. And as for the mere\ndeath, no good Christian fears that. Why, I have known a\nman seek death!\"\n\n\"Did he kill himself?\" inquired Katje.\n\n\"Kill himself! Indeed he didn't. That would be a crime, and\na dreadful scandal. No, he took death by the hand in a most\nseemly and respectable way, and his family were always\nthought the better of for it.\n\n\"Yes, I'll tell you about it. It will be a lesson to you,\nKatje, and I hope you will think about it and take it to\nheart.\n\n\"The man I am talking about was Mynheer Andries van der\nLinden, a most godly and prosperous Burgher, whose farm was\non the High Veld. All the days of his life he walked\nuprightly, and married twice. His sons and daughters were\nmany, and all good, save for one sidelong skellum, Piet,\nhis second son, who afterwards went to live among the\nEnglish. He had cattle and sheep at pasture for miles, and\na kerk on his land, where his nephew, the Predikant, used\nto preach. And by reason of his sanctity and cleverness\nAndries grew richer and richer till the Burghers respected\nhim so much that they made him a commandant and a member of\nthe Church Council.\n\n\"All prospered with him, as I was telling you, until one\nday it seemed as if God's hand had fallen from him. He was\nsmitten with a disease of which not the oldest woman in the\ndistrict had ever seen the like, and his own flesh became a\ncurse to him. The very marrow in his bones bred fire to\nfeed on his body, and he lay on his bed in the torments of\nhell. For weeks he writhed and screamed like a madman,\ntossing on his blankets and tearing at his body, or\nstruggling and howling as his sons held him down for fear\nhe should injure himself in his frenzy. The whole thing was\nvery terrible and mysterious; and it was said among the\nfarms that Andries van der Linden could not have been so\ngood after all, or God would not thus visit him with such a\nscourge.\n\n\"For myself, I never believed this, and what he afterwards\ndid will show that I had the right of it. Still, good or\nbad, the affliction was undeniable, for I myself heard him\nscreaming like a beast as I drove to Nachtmaal.\n\n\"The malady lasted for months, and all herbs and pills that\nwere given him did not an atom of good. Even the Kafirs\ncould do nothing, though Klein Andries, the old man's\neldest son and a good lad, caught a witch-doctor and\nsjamboked him to pieces to make him help. In short, the\nillness was plainly beyond mortal cure, and the old man at\nlast came to see this.\n\n\"I should have told you that he had times of peace, when\nthe agony forsook him, and left him limp like a wet clout.\nThen he would sweat and quake with terror of the pains that\nwould return; and so pitiful was his condition that he\ncould not even listen with a proper patience to the reading\nof Scripture or the singing of David's psalms. You will see\nfrom this what a terrible visitation to a God-fearing man\nthis illness was.\n\n\"So he made up his mind. One morning early, while quietness\nwas with him, he called for Klein Andries and bade him shut\nthe door of the room.\n\n\"'Andries,' he said, 'I have been thinking the matter to a\nfinish, and I am determined to have an end to this\ntorment.'\n\n\"'Have you found any means?' began Klein Andries.\n\n\"'Listen,' said the old man. 'It is plain to me, that I\nshall gain no cure on earth, and I have decided to die. So\nI shall die at the end of a week about two hours after\nsunrise.'\n\n\"Andries was of course very much taken aback. 'I do not\nunderstand,' he said. 'You cannot mean to kill yourself?'\n\n\"'Of course not,' answered the old man. 'That will be your\npart.'\n\n\"'How do you mean?' cried Andries.\n\n\"'I shall lie here in my bed, with clean pillows and fresh\nsheets, and the best coverlet. Our people will all be\nhere,--you will see to that,--and when I have spoken to them\nand shaken their hands, you shall bring in your rifle--'\n\n\"'That will do,' said Klein Andries. 'You need tell me no\nmore. I will not do it.'\n\n\"'But you are my first-born,' said the father.\n\n\"'It is all the same; I will not do it.'\n\n\"'Then you can get out of my house, with your wife and your\nchildren, and go look for a stone on which to lay your\nheads.'\n\n\"'That is very easy,' answered Klein Andries, quite calmly.\n'No doubt we shall find that stone you speak of.'\n\n\"'And I will get Piet to do it,' said the old man.\n\n\"'No,' replied Klein Andries.  'Piet shall not do it.\nNobody shall do it. I will not have it done.'\n\n\"'Andries,' said the old man, 'you and I must not talk\nthus. I am your father, and I tell you to do me this\nservice. Say rather, I ask it of you. It is no more than an\nact of kindness to a stricken man; your hand on the gun\nwill be the hand of mercy.'\n\n\"'But I cannot do it,' cried out Klein Andries in a sort of\npain.\n\n\"'You will do it,' said the old man. 'Remember you are the\neldest of my sons. You will do it, Andries?'\n\n\"'No,' said Andries.\n\n\"'You will do it?'\n\n\"'No!'\n\n\"'Then, Andries,' said the old man, half raising himself as\nhe lay, and pointing a finger at his son--'then, Andries,\neldest son and dearest and all, I will curse you.'\n\n\"For a full minute the two looked each other in the eyes,\nand then Klein Andries let his hand fall on his knee like a\nman beaten and broken.\n\n\"'It shall be as you say,' he answered at last. 'I will do\nwhat you ask, but--it will spoil my life for me.'\n\n\"'Thank you, my son,' said the old man, sinking back.\n\n\"'Oh, I will do it,' said Andries. 'But I hold it a sin, a\nblack and bloody sin, that I commit with open eyes and a\nfull knowledge. But I will do it.'\n\n\"So the thing happened, and all that week before his death\nthe old man suffered little. As he said himself, his last\ntaste of life was sweet in his mouth. He thought much upon\nhis grave and the manner of his burying, and would often\ntalk with Klein Andries and Piet, and give them directions.\n\n\"'I will not be buried in the kraal,' he said one day. 'My\nsister Greta never had any love for me, and I had just as\nlief not disturb her. Put me on top of the hill there; I\nwas always one for an open view.'\n\n\"From where he lay he could see through the window the\nplace where he desired to be buried, and the grave of his\ncousin Cornel, dead twenty years before..\n\n\"'Put me, then, on top of the hill,' he said, 'and I shall\nbe able to overlook Cornel. He has a head-board with a\nround top, so you will give me two boards, one at my head\nand one at my feet, both with round tops. You would not\nhave that carrion triumph over me?'\n\n\"'It shall be done,' said Andries.\n\n\"'And you might carve a verse on my headboard,' the old man\nwent on. 'Cornel has only his name and dates, and no doubt\nhe counts on my having no more. His board is only painted;\nsee that you carve mine.'\n\n\"'I do not carve letters very well,' began Andries, 'but--'\n\n\"'Oh, you carve well enough,' said the old man. 'Very well\nindeed, considering. You won't have to do very much. There\nare plenty of short verses in the Psalms, and some--very\ngood ones, too--in Proverbs. The Predikant will soon choose\na verse of the right sort. Say a verse, Andries; it is not\nmuch.'\n\n\"'I will see to it,' said Andries.\n\n\"Then Piet, whose mind was a dunghill, had a horrible\nthought. 'But what about the water?' he cried, for the\nstream from which they took their drinking-water ran past\nthe foot of the hill.\n\n\"'You must draw your water higher up, answered the old man.\n'If I were not about to die, Piet, and therefore under a\nneed to judge not, lest I be judged, I would cut down your\noxen and sheep for that. Go out; I will say what I have to\nsay to Andries.'\n\n\"When Piet was gone he went on. 'Remember, Andries, a bare\nfour foot, no more. I would not wish to be late when the\ndead arise. Just four foot of cool earth, and a black\ncoffin with plenty of room in it.'\n\n\"'I will take care,' replied Klein Andries.\n\n\"'Very well, do as I have told you, and I shall be very\nwell off. I shall sleep without pain till the last day, and\nperhaps dream in peace about the verse on my head-board and\nthe round tops.'\n\n\"Although I like a man to take it bravely, I can very well\nunderstand that that week must have been a terrible one for\nKlein Andries, who, though a good lad, and a wealthy man at\nthis day, never was particularly quick at taking up an\nidea. He went about with a bowed head and empty eyes, like\na man in mortal shame; and I believe that never since has\nhe quite cast off the load his father laid on him. Not that\nI see any harm in the affair myself.\n\n\"Well, in proper course the day came, and Andries van der\nLinden lay in his bed between the fresh sheets, propped up\nwith fine clean pillows. His people had come from near and\nfar, for the curious story was well known, and they were\nproud of their kinsman. They crowded the room in which he\nlay, all in their best clothes, a little uneasy, as most\nfolks are on great occasions, and all very quiet.\n\n\"Old Andries van der Linden was free from pain, and spoke\nto them all in very cheerful and impressing words. As he\nlay among his pillows with his white hair thrown back and\nhis beard on his breast, he was a fine man to see--a picture\nof a good and a brave man. He read aloud from the Bible,\nand then prayed awhile, giving out his words grandly and\nwithout a quaver. Then he shook them all by the hand and\nbade each one good-bye.\n\n\"'Now, Andries,' he said, and lay back smiling.\n\n\"Klein Andries stood at the foot of the bed with his rifle\nresting across the rail, but he dropped his head with a\nsob.\n\n\"'I cannot,' he said, 'I cannot.'\n\n\"'Come, Andries,' said the old man again. 'Come, my son.'\n\n\"Then Klein Andries caught his breath in his throat and\nsteadied the rifle. The old man lay calmly, still smiling,\nwith fearless eyes.\n\n\"'Close your eyes,' said Andries hoarsely, and as the old\nman did so he fired.\n\n\"The windows of the room were blown outwards and broken,\nbut the shot was a true one, and the work was well and\nworkmanlike done.\"\n\n\"It must have spoiled the sheets,\" observed Katje.\n\n VASCO'S SWEETHEART\n\n\"As to that,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar, answering a point\nthat no one had raised, \"it has been seen over and over\nagain that sin leaves its mark. Do you not trust or avoid a\nman because there is honor or wickedness in his face? Ah,\nmen's faces are the writing on the wall, and only the\nBelshazzars cannot read them.\n\n\"But the marks go deeper than a lowering brow or a cruel\nmouth. Men may die and leave behind them no monuments save\ntheir sin. Of such a case I remember one instance.\n\n\"Before my second husband was married to his first wife he\nlived out yonder, on the Portuguese border, and in the\nthick of the fever country. I have not seen the place, but\nit is badly spoken of for a desolate, unchancy land, bad\nfor cattle, and only good to hunters. My second husband was\na great hunter, and died, as you know, through having his\nbody crushed by a lion. The people out there are not good\nBoer stock, but a wild and savage folk, with dark blood in\nthem.\n\n\"I only know this story from my second husband, but it took\nhold of me, as he used to tell it. There was a family in\nthose parts of the name of Preez. No relation to the Du\nPreez you know, who are well enough in their way, but Preez\nsimply,--a short name and a bad one. They were big holders\nof land, with every reason to be rich, but bad farmers,\nlazy hunters, and deep drinkers. The Kafirs down there make\na drink out of fruit which is very fiery and conquers a man\nquickly, and these people were always to be seen half\ndrunk, or else stupid from the stuff. Old Preez, the\nfather, in particular, was a terrible man, by all tellings;\nfull threescore and ten years of age, but strong, fiery,\nand full of oaths. My second husband used to say there was\nsomething in the look of him that daunted one; for his hair\nand his beard were white, his face was savagely red, and\nhis eyes were like hot coals. And with it all he had a way\nof looking on you that made you run from him. When he was\ndown with drink and fever he would cry out in a terrible\nvoice that his mother was a queen's daughter and he was a\nprince.\"\n\n\"I have heard of the people you speak of,\" I said. \"They\nare half-Portuguese, and perhaps the old man was not wholly\nlying.\"\n\n\"Um! Well, prince or not, he married in his youth a woman\nof the half-blood, and begot of her a troop of devils. Five\nsons he had, all great men, knowing not God and fearing\nnone of God's works. And after them came a daughter, a\npuling slip of a thing, never meant to live, whom they did\nto death among them with their drinking and blaspheming and\nfighting.\n\n\"My second husband told me tales of that family that set my\nblood freezing. He had his own way of telling stories, and\nmade you see pictures, as it were. Once, he used to say,\nfor a trifle spoken concerning them and their ways, they\nvisited a missionary by night, dragged him from his bed,\nand crucified him against his door, while his wife clung to\nthe old man's knees and besought the mercy they never gave\nand never got. Even the wild folk of the countryside were\nstricken with the horror and impiety of the deed; and it\nsays much for the fear in which the Preez family were held\nthat none molested them or called them to account.\n\n\"In the end the eldest of the five sons took a mind to\nmarry and to leave some of his accursed stock to plague the\nworld when it should be delivered from him and his\nbrothers. They cast about for a wife for him, and were not\ncontent with the first that offered. They had their pride,\nthe Preez, and in their place a fair measure of respect,\nfor among the wicked, you know, the devil is king. From one\nfarmhouse to another they rode, dragging forth women and\ngirls to be looked at like cattle. Many a tall, black-\nbrowed hussy would have been content to go away with Vasco\nPreez (such was his unchristian name), but he was not\nwilling to do right by any of them.\n\n\"They were returning home from one of these expeditions\nwhen they passed a lowly house beside the road with no\nfence around it. But before the house a girl stood on the\ngrass, with her kapje in her hand, to see the six big men\nride by. She was little and slim, and, unlike the maidens\nof the country, whitish, with a bunch of yellow hair on the\ntop of her head and hanging over her ears. The others would\nhave passed her by, judging her unworthy even an insult,\nbut Vasco reined in his horse and shouted a great oath.\n\n\"'The woman for me!' he cried. 'The woman I was looking\nfor! I never knew what I wanted before.'\n\n\"The others halted to look, and the girl, frightened, ran\ninto the house. Vasco got down from his horse.\n\n\"'Fetch the filly out,' shouted the old man. 'Fetch her out\nand let us see her paces.'\n\n\"Vasco walked straight into the little house, while the\nothers waited, laughing. They heard no screams and no\nfighting, and presently out comes Vasco alone.\n\n\"He went over to his horse and mounted. 'There is nothing\nto wait for,' he said. 'Let us be getting on.'\n\n\"'But the girl?' cried one of his brothers. 'Is she dead,\nor what?'\n\n\"'No,' said Vasco, 'but she would not come.'\n\n\"'Would not come!' bellowed the old father, while the\nothers laughed. 'Did you say she would not come?'\n\n\"'That is what I said,' answered Vasco, sitting his horse\nvery straight, and scowling at the lot of them.\n\n\"'He has a fever,' cried the old man, looking from one to\nanother. 'He is light in the head. My faith! I believe the\ngirl has been beating him with a stick. Here, one of you,'\nhe roared, turning on them, 'get down and kick the girl out\nof the door. We'll have a look at the witch!'\n\n\"Koos, the youngest, sprang from his saddle and made\ntowards the house; but he was not gone five paces before\nVasco spurred his horse on to him and knocked him down.\n\n\"'Keep off,' he said then, turning to face them all, as\nKoos rose slowly. 'If I cannot bring the girl out none of\nyou can, and you had better not try. Whoever does will be\nhurt, for I shall stand in front of the door.'\n\n\"And he went straight to the house, and, dismounting, stood\nin the doorway, with his hands resting on the beam above\nhis head. He was a big man, and he filled the door.\n\n\"'Hear him,' foamed the old father. 'God, if I were as\nyoung as any of you, I would drag the girl across his body.\nSons, he has defied us, and the girl has bewitched him. Run\nat him, lads, and bring them both out!'\n\n\"'They all came towards the house in a body, but stopped\nwhen Vasco raised his hand.\n\n\"'I warn you,' he told them--'I warn you to let the matter\nbe. This will not be an affair of fighting, with only\nbroken bones to mend when it is over. If I take hold of any\none after this warning, that man will be cold before the\nsun sets. And to show you how useless this quarrel is, I\nwill ask the girl once more if she will come out. You all\nsaw her?'\n\n\"'Yes,' they answered; 'but what is this foolery about\nasking her?'\n\n\"'You saw her--very well.' He raised his voice and called\ninto the house, 'Meisje, will you not come out? I ask you\nto.'\n\n\"There was silence for a moment, and then they heard the\nanswer. 'No,' it said; 'I will stay where I am. And you are\nto go away.'\n\n\"'As soon as may be, my girl,' called Vasco in answer.\n'Now,' he said to the men, 'you see she will not come.'\n\n\"'But, man, in the name of God, cast her over your shoulder\nand carry her out,' cried the father.\n\n\"'Vasco looked at him. 'Not this one,' he said. 'She shall\ndo as she pleases.'\n\n\"Then they rushed on him, but he stepped out from the door,\nand caught young Koos round the middle. With one giant's\nheave he raised him aloft and dashed him at the gang,\nscattering them right and left, and knocking one to the\nground, where he remained motionless. But Koos lay like a\nbroken tool or a smashed vessel, as dead men lie. And all\nthe while Vasco talked to them.\n\n\"'Come on,' he was saying. 'Come all of you. We shall never\ndo anything but fight now. I see plainly we ought to have\nfought long ago. Bring her out, indeed!'\n\n\"They paused after that, aghast at the fury of the man they\nwere contending against. But the old man gave them no rest.\n\n\"'Get sticks,' he cried to them--get sticks and kill him.'\n\n\"They dragged beams from a hut roof, and one of them took a\nheavy stone. Vasco stood back and watched them till they\ncame forward again.\n\n\"The one with the stone came first, but it was too big to\nthrow from a distance, and he dared not go near. The others\napproached with caution, and Vasco stood still, with his\nhands resting as before at the top of the door. They were\nbewildered at his manner, and very cautious, but at length\nthey drew near and rushed at him.\n\n\"Then a most astonishing thing happened. With one wrench\nVasco tore the thick architrave from the wall, a beam as\nthick as a man's thigh, and smote into the middle of them.\nWhere he hit the bone gave and the flesh fell away, and as\nthey ran from before him the wall fell in.\n\n\"Down came the wall, and with it the heavy beams on the\nroof. The old father, cursing over a broken arm, heard the\ngirl scream, and saw the wreck come crashing about Vasco's\nshoulders till he disappeared below it. And then, where the\nhouse had been stood a ruin, with two souls buried in the\nmidst of it.\n\n\"It steadied them like a dash of cold water. However they\nmight fight among themselves, they were loyal to one\nanother. Besides the old father, with his broken arm, there\nwas only one other that could put a hand to the work, and\ntogether they started to drag away the beams and bricks and\nstones that covered Vasco and the girl.\n\n\"I know they were wicked men who are in hell long since,\nbut I cannot contain a sort of admiration for the spirit\nthat fastened them to their toil all that long night,--the\nold man with his broken arm, the young one with a dozen\nhorrid wounds. As the sky paled towards morning, they\ndiscovered the girl dead, and leaving her where she lay\nthey wrought on to uncover Vasco.\n\n\"When they found him he was crushed and broken, and pierced\nin many places with splinters and jagged broken ends of\nwood. But he had his senses still, and smiled as they\ncleared the thatch from above his face.\n\n\"The old man looked at him carefully.  'You are dying, my\nson,' he said.\n\n\"'Of course,' answered Vasco. 'Is that Renault?' He smiled\nagain at his brother. 'So there are two of you alive,\nanyhow. How about the others?'\n\n\"'Two dead,' answered his father. 'And the other will not\nwalk again all his days. You are a terrible fighter, my\nson.'\n\n\"'Yes,' answered Vasco, in a faint voice. 'It was the girl,\nyou see.'\n\n\"'She was a witch, then?' asked the old man.\n\n\"'No,' said Vasco smiling. 'Or perhaps, yes. I do not know.\nBut I will fight for her again if you like.'\n\n\"'Oho! so that is it,' and the old man knelt down beside\nhim. 'Now, I see,' he said. 'I never guessed before--did not\nknow it was in you. My son, I ask you to forgive us.'\n\n\"'I forgive, but where is she?'\n\n\"'Dead. No, it was none of our doing. You did it,--the roof\nfell on her. We will lay you together.'\n\n\"'Do so,' replied Vasco. 'I think I am dying now.'\n\n\"'Yes,' answered the father.  Your face is becoming gray.\nYour throat will rattle in a minute. Look here; this is\nwhat my mother used to do.'\n\n\"'And he did thus,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar, giving a very\ngood imitation of the sign of the cross.\n\n\"But that was not a bad ending,\" cried Katje. \"I think it\nwas beautiful. I hope Vasco and the girl went straight to\nGod.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar sighed.\n\n THE PERUVIAN\n\nFROM her pocket Katje produced stealthily a clean-scoured\nwish-bone.  The Vrouw Grobelaar was sleeping in her chair\nwith tight-shut eyes. So I took one end of the bone, and we\nbroke it, and the wish remained with Katje.\n\n\"Wish quick,\" I said.\n\nShe puckered her pretty brows with a charming childish\nthoughtfulness.\n\n\"I can't think of anything to wish for,\" she answered.\n\n\"Wish to be delivered from the sin of playing with\nwitchcraft and dirty old bones!\" The suggestion echoed\nroundly in the old lady's deep tones, and we, startled and\nabashed, looked up to find her wide awake, and in her\ndidactic mood. The Vrouw Grobelaar never slept to any real\npurpose. One might have remembered that.\n\n\"Yes, witchcraft,\" she pursued.  \"For if bones are not\nwitchcraft, tell me what is? When a Hottentot wants to find\na strayed ox, he makes magic with bones, doesn't he? And\nthe bones of a dead baboon are dangerous things too. Katje,\nthrow that bone away.\"\n\nKatje, who hated to be found out, threw it over the rail of\nthe stoop into the kraal. When the good Vrouw had kept her\nsteady eye on me for a few seconds, I threw my half after\nKatje's.\n\n\"I thought so,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar, with a twitch of\nthe lips like a smile stillborn.\n\n\"It's only a game,\" said Katje plaintively. \"There's no\nharm in it.\"\n\nThe old lady shook her head.\n\n\"There's harm in things you don't understand,\" she\npronounced.  \"There's harm in failing in love, for\ninstance, if you don't know what you are doing. But\nwitchcraft is worse than anything. You've seen how hard it\nis to make a Kafir doctor show his tricks. That's because\nhe's never certain which is master, he or the devil. I knew\na man once, a Peruvian, who burned his fingers badly.\"\n\nA Peruvian, for the Vrouw Grobelaar, was any one for whose\nnationality she had no name. In Johannesburg it means a\nPolish Jew; in this instance I believe the man was a Greek.\n\n\"He was a smouser\" (pedlar), she went on, \"a little\ncowering man, with a black beard and a white face, who\nspoke Kafir better than he spoke the Taal. He sold thimbles\nand pills and hymn-books to the wives and daughters of\nBurghers, and grand watches and cheap diamonds to the\nKafirs. It was a dirty little trade, and there was nothing\nabout the man that streaked it with nobility. I remember a\nScotch smouser, who was called Peter Piper, who sold pills\nlike a chemist, and everybody liked him and respected him,\ntill he had his great dispute with the Predikant at\nDopfontein. But this little man was like a slimy thing made\nto crawl on its belly; and many is the time he would have\nbeen sjamboked from a door, were it not for--well, I don't\nknow. But he was such a mean helpless thing, that, when he\nshrank away and looked up, with his white eyes staring and\nhis lips parted, not the most wrathful Burgher could lift a\nwhip.\n\n\"And even as he seemed to fear everything, the Kafirs\ncertainly feared him. Kafirs, you know, go naked to all the\nlittle winds, and the breezes that will not hurt a thatch\ncarry death to them. They are deaf to God. but the devil\nhas but to whisper, and they hear.  They bought shameful\nwatches and sleepy diamonds from the Peruvian, as they kill\na goat at the flowering of the crops--to appease something\nthat might else visit them in the night. It was a thing\nmuch spoken of, and since even among the Burghers there are\nfolks who dirty their fingers with magic and wish-bones--ay,\nyou may well pout!--perhaps this had something to do with\nthe fact that he was never flogged to the beacons and\nkicked across.\n\n\"In fact, there grew up about him a something of mystery,\nuncanny and not respectable. The little plodding man who\nwent so meekly past our gates had a shadow one feared to\ntread on.\n\n\"You won't remember, but you will have heard of, the\nterrible to-do there was when Freda van der Byl\ndisappeared. She was a most ordinary girl, perhaps eighteen\nyears old, with a fine appetite, and nothing whatsoever\nabout her that was strange or extraordinary: and yet one\nnight she was missing, and it has never been set past doubt\nwho saw her last. She was on the stoop in the afternoon,\nate well at supper, went out then in the usual way to the\nhut where the tobacco-sacks were, and never came in again.\nShe disappeared like a flame blown out, with never a spoor\nto give direction to those that sought her, without a shred\nof clothing on a thorn-bush to hint at a tale. She seemed\nto have fled clean out of the world--a big ten--stone girl\nwith red hair melted like a bubble.\n\n\"And how they hunted for her! Old Johannes van der Byl and\nhis sons went through the country like locusts, and with\nthem were a mob of relations and friends, and some\nprospectors from the Hangklip who betted about it. Every\nkloof was scoured, every Kafir stad and kraal turned inside\nout, and the half of them burned. Their ponies streaked the\nlong grass of the veld for miles; the men, their loaded\nrifles in hand, were abroad late and early; and yet they\nnever found even a shoe-sole or a shred of hair to give\nthem a clue. The witch-doctors would have been glad enough\nto find her, for they were flogged from morning to night,\nand Barend van der Byl beat the life out of one who did not\nseem to be doing his best. If Freda had been anywhere in\nthe veld she would have been found, so fervently did the\nKafirs hunt her in order to get a little peace and\nsecurity.\n\n\"But nothing availed; no trace of her came to light, and\neven the women of her family grew tired of weeping. But one\nhot dusty afternoon, when her brothers Jacobus and Piet\nwere riding home from the fruitless search, they came upon\nthe Peruvian sitting under a bush smoking his yellow\ncigarettes. He glanced up at them as they went past,\nslavish as ever, yet still with that subtle significance of\nmien that made him noteworthy, and suddenly Jacobus reined\nup.\n\n\"'Piet,' he called, pointing with his sjambok. Look--our\nlast chance!'\n\n\"Piet did not understand.\n\n\"'We have been cutting the Kafir doctors into ribbons,'\nexplained Jacobus, 'and they were no good. But here is a\nwizard, and a white one, who won't wait to be flogged. If\nhe can do nothing, then there is nothing to do. Let us\nbring him along, Piet.'\n\n\"Piet was a fat youth, deadly strong, who never spoke while\nthere was work to do. He merely dropped from his saddle and\ncaught the Peruvian deftly by the back of the neck. The\nsmouser, of course, whined and squirmed, but Piet was the\nman who broke the bullock's neck at Bothaskraal, and he\nmade no difficulty of tying the little man's wrists to his\noff stirrup. All his trinkets and fallals they left behind,\nand riding at a walk, talking calmly between themselves of\nthe buck with wide horns that the Predikant's cousin\nmissed, they dragged the little smouser to the homestead.\n\n\"'Several of the men had already come back, and when they\nheard Jacobus's plan, some were openly afraid and wished to\nhave the Peruvian set loose. But Oom Johannes cursed at\nthem and smacked Jacobus on the back.\n\n\"'My daughter is lost, and evil tongues are active about\nher,' he roared. 'I want her back, and I don't care how she\ncomes. Come to supper, Jacobus; and afterwards you shall\ntake your smouser into a hut and persuade him.'\n\n\"It was not an easy thing to make the Peruvian understand\nwhat was wanted of him. But by and by, when he had been\nargued with in Dutch and Kafir, and shown a skull that was\nfound in a kloof, and the dol oss, and a picture in the\nBible of the Witch of Endor, he suddenly grasped the idea,\nand grinned. Piet spat on the ground as the white teeth\ngleamed through the greasy black beard.\n\n\"'Yes, perhaps I can do that,' said the Peruvian, in the\nTaal. 'Perhaps, but one cannot be sure. You will pay, eh?'\n\n\"Jacobus wanted to threaten, but Oom Johannes would not\nhave it.\n\n\"'Find my girl,' he said, 'and you shall be paid. Fifty\npounds for any news of her, more if she is alive and well.'\n\n\"But the smouser explained that he could only find her if\nshe were dead.\n\n\"'I can get her to speak, perhaps,' he said. 'More? No!'\n\n\"At last Jacobus and Piet took him into one of the big huts\nand gave him the little lamp that he demanded. He set it in\nthe middle of the floor, and when they pulled to the door\nbehind them the big domed hut was still almost dark, save\nfor the ring of quiet light in the centre that flickered a\nlittle.\n\n\"'I wish he could do this kind of thing when I'm not\nthere,' grumbled Jacobus, who hated creepy things.\n\n\"'Hush! be quiet!' commanded the Peruvian, and the two\nyoung men sat down, very close together, with their backs\nto the door.\n\n\"'The first thing that the Peruvian did was to take off all\nhis clothes, and then he came into the dim circle of light\nmother-naked. He was a little man at best, but Piet said\nafterwards the muscles stood out under his swarthy skin in\nknots and ridges. And there he stood, facing them across\nthe lamp, with his arms stretched forwards and his hands\njust fluttering loosely. Nothing more. His eyes were\nupturned and his face lifted, so that a streak of shadow\nrose across it, and the black beard against his neck rose\nand fell with his breathing. But for the gentle flutter of\nhis hands and the heave of his chest he was still as stone--\nso still that for those who watched him all relation to\nhuman kind seemed to leave him, and he was a being alone in\na twilight world of his own, a creature as remote and as\nlittle to be understood as the spirits of the dead.\n\n\"Have you ever, when wakeful in a hot night, with darkness\nall about you, called yourself by name again and again? It\nwas a trick we dared sometimes when I was a girl. After a\nwhile it is something else that is calling, something of\nyou but not in you, to which your soul answers at last; and\nif you go on till the will to call is no longer your own,\nthe soul goes forth in response to it, and you are dead.\nAnd even so, gaunt in the beam of the lamp, the Peruvian\nseemed to insist upon himself, till the eyes of the\nwatchers were for him only, till that which they saw was\nless the mean body of the smouser than the vehicle of the\npotent soul within.\n\n\"Piet was a youth as solid in mind as in body, and ere the\nscene grasped him against his will he says he saw with an\nangry impatience the flicker of a leer on the darkened face\nof the Peruvian. But it did not last. In a few minutes the\ntwo young Burghers were not the only ones whom the spell\nhad subdued--the wizard was netted too. And then, as he\nstood, his hands still fluttering, they heard him drone a\nstring of words, a dull chant, level like an incantation,\ninevitably apt to the hour and the event.\n\n\"They did not know how long they crouched, watching\nunwinkingly till their eyes grew sore; but at last it\nseemed that the posturing and the words had made something\ndue. Jacobus started as though from sleep, and Piet, who\nwas not till then frightened, looked up quickly. He caught\nsight of something--a shadow, a hint, a presence in the\ndarkness behind the naked man, and knew, somehow, with a\ncoldness of alarm, that IT had arrived. He barely realized\nthis knowledge when the power of the quietness and the\njugglery were rudely sundered, and the Peruvian, shrieking\nand clucking in his throat, dived towards them and tried to\nhide. He plunged frantically against the door, which gave\nand let him fall through, and in a moment, with the cold\nsweat of horror upon them, Piet and Jacobus struggled\nthrough after him and ran with still hearts for the house.\n\n\"But in that moment that he was jammed in the narrow\ndoorway with his brother, Piet saw into the hut, and there\nwas something there. There was another with them.\n\n\"They came fast to the lighted room upon the heels of the\nnaked Peruvian, who fell on his face and writhed, weeping\nin sheer terror. There was alarm, and chairs overturned,\nand screaming of women, and it was long before they could\nget the smouser to his feet and bring him to speech. And\nthen he would not go a foot away from them.\n\n\"'It came; it came!' he babbled, quivering under the table-\ncloth they had cast over his nakedness. 'It came--behind\nme!' and forthwith he began to stammer in his own strange\ntongue.\n\n\"'What was it?' demanded Oom Johannes, who was beginning to\nfeel nervous.\n\n\"'There was a ghost!' was all that Piet could tell him. 'It\nfrightened the smouser. It frightened all of us.'\n\n\"And by this time the smouser was babbling again, turning\nfrom one to the other, like one who excuses himself.\n\n\"'I did not bring it,' he wailed. 'I did nothing--only\ntricks. Just tricks to get money--and it came behind me.\nMother of God! It came behind me!'\n\n\"Not one of them ventured beyond the door that night. They\nhad not even the heart to turn the smouser out, though he\nexpected nothing less, and clung howling to Piet's knees\nwhen the lad rose to bolt the door. But in the morning he\nwas gone, and\"--here the Vrouw Grobelaar became truly\nimpressive--\"he had not even fetched his clothes from the\nhut.\n\n\"So you see, Katje, what comes of messing your fingers with\nwish-bones.\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" sneered Katje, \"I'm not afraid of the ghost of the\nfowl.\"\n\n\n\nTAGALASH\n\nWhen we came to the farmhouse, Katje and I, the Vrouw\nGrobelaar asked if we had been down by the spruit. We had--\nall the afternoon. There are cool and lonely places in the\nlong grass beside the spruit, where its midsummer trickle\nof water sojourns peacefully in wide pools of depth and\nquiet.\n\n\"You can't mind that, anyhow,\" said Katje patiently.\n\n\"Why can't I?\" demanded the Vrouw Grobelaar. \"Why can't I\nmind that as well as anything else? I tell you, my girl,\nthat things are not quite so simple as you take them to be.\nEven a herd of swine can house a devil, mark you. A bit of\nstick in the path can be a puff adder, and there are spells\ntucked away in the words of the Psalms even. And the\nspruit!  Why, you crazy child, a spruit is just the place\nfor things to lurk in wait. Yes, slippery things that have\nno name in man's speech. Even the Kafirs know of a spirit\nthat lives in a pool.\"\n\nKatje laughed, \"Oh, Tagalash!\" she said.\n\nTagalash is the little god who abducts girls who go down to\nfetch water in the evening, and carries them away to the\ndim world under the floor of the pools to be his brides. He\nlives in the water, and sings in the reeds, sometimes, of\nan evening and at other times works mischief among the\ncrops and the cattle with spells that baffle the\nhusbandman.\n\nSo Katje laughed as she mentioned him, and the Vrouw\nGrobelaar bridled ominously.\n\n\"You laugh,\" she said scathingly--\"you laugh in the face of\nwisdom and counsel as they laughed in Sodom and Gomorrah.\nYes; Tagalash, Katje! What have you to say against\nTagalash? You think, I suppose, that he doesn't exist. I\ntell you, my girl, there's many a god of the heathen who is\na devil of the Christians. That's what Christianity is for--\nto make devils of the gods of the heathen. And besides,\nthis Tagalash is not like the others. He has been seen.\"\n\nShe paused. \"Who by, Tante?\" I asked, while Katje affected\nto whistle carelessly.\n\n\"Ah,\" she said, \"you want to know? Well, Tagalash was seen\nand felt and had speech of by one who told it afterwards\nwith white lips and fevered eyes that compelled belief. A\nBoer woman, mind you, and no liar; the young wife of an\nupright and well-seen Burgher, who had his farm an easy\nfour hours from here.\n\n\"It is Folly Joubert I mean, who married when she was\neighteen one Johannes Olivier, a youth with hair like an\nIrishman--all red. I had known her somewhat, and she was\njust that kind of girl in whom one feels the thrust of a\nfate. She was thin, for one thing, and without any of the\ncomfortable comeliness that makes young men doubtful and\nold men sure. She had a face that was always rapt, lips\nthat parted of themselves as if in wonder at great things\nnewly seen, and big troubled eyes that spoke, despite her\nleanness and long legs, of a spring of hot blood crouching\nwithin her. Yes, she seemed doomed to something far and\ntragic, and outside the lives of decent stupid men.\n\n\"There was much bother, I believe, to persuade her to a\nmarriage with Johannes, though he was rich enough.\n\n\"Perhaps it was hard on her, but then it must have been\nhard on him too. For he was another kind than she; just a\nbig youth that ate four times a day with desperation, and\nlived the rest of the time as a tree lives. There is no\nharm in such men, though; it is they that people this world\nand have the right to guide it, for they put most into it\nand hew most from it; but for those who are born with a\nstreak of heaven or hell in their fabric, they are heavy\ncompanions at the best. But these two married at last, and\nfaced life like oxen that pull different ways in the same\nyoke. And within a month Johannes walked about with a face\nlike one who tries to guess a riddle-troubled and puzzled;\nand Polly was walking elsewhere, carving herself a new\nreligion from the stones of the bitterness of life.\n\n\"I have the rest from her own lips, as she told it when she\ncame back. Yes, she went away--I will make that plain\nenough. It was after a quarrel with Johannes over some\nlittle grossness of no consequence that she walked forth\nfrom the house and down towards the spruit. It was between\nafternoon and evening, and she sought a quiet place to sit\nand prey on her heart. There was a pool that summer, deep\nand very black, lying between steep banks on which grew\nbushes and tall grass, and to this she came and sat by the\nedge of the water, and dabbled her long thin fingers in its\ncoolness and let her thoughts surge in her.\n\n\"'I thought of death,' she said, as she sat in her chair\nand told of it--'of death, and peace, and hatred glutted,\nand dead enemies, and love, and sin. A wild storm of\ndreams, was it not? A grim tempest to lay waste a sore\nheart. And she only eighteen, with eyes like lakes on a\nmountainside!' As she told it, she cast back on her memory--\nyou could see she was aching to strip her fault naked and\nscourge it before us all--'And the thoughts were like a\nsleeping draught to my anger,' she went on pitifully. 'I\ndrowned my wrath in dreams of vengeance and sinful hopes of\na joy to find in the future.'\n\n\"'I conjured up faces of eager, bold men who should court\nme, and one that I had thought on before--a small man, lean\nat the waist, who moved like a spark among burning wood,\nand laughed ere he struck.' Her finger traveled in the air,\nand he was plain to see.\n\n\"She went on: 'I was looking in the water between my hands,\ncreating my lover by the spell of desire, and I could see\nhis face in the vortex my fingers made as I moved them to\nand fro. I gazed and gazed and gazed, and then, suddenly,\nsome fear gripped me, for the face became a face of a man,\nwith the idle water swilling across it. But it was a face:\nmy mind battled against the realization till the fact\ngoverned it. It was a face, brown and keen and smiling with\na gleam of white teeth, and then a hand met my hand in the\nwater and drew me forward. I did not drag back. I think I\nfell on my face, but here I have no memory.'\n\n\"When again she came to a sense of things, she was lying in\na dim place where all that moved seemed shadows only. At\nfirst it was her thought that she was yet on the bank by\nthe pool, but as her mind renewed its hold she knew this\nwas not so. She breathed an air alien to her living\nnostrils, and knew that here she had no part in a world of\nhuman creatures, and the thought rose in her that she was\ndead, drowned in the pool, and had reached the next world.\n'Can this be hell?' she wondered, as she rose to a sitting\nposture and strove to see about her.\n\n\"It was a grassed mound she sat on, in a kind of plain, and\nshe heard the creaking of bushes about her where no wind\nbreathed on her cheek. The dimness was not the part\ndarkness of a summer night, but a shadow where no sun had\never shone, a barren gloom that was lugubrious and uneasy.\nA dozen feet from her all was blurred and not to be\ndistinguished, but it seemed to her that many people moved\nround about her, and now and again there was a rustle of\nhushed voices, as of folk who met stealthily and spoke with\nchecked breath. In the dimness shapes moved, faintly\nsuggested to her eyes, and presently, though she had no\nthrill of fear, a loneliness oppressed her that nearly made\nher weep. She was not as one that has no comrade in the\nworld, for such a one is at least kin by blood and flesh to\nall others. She was alone, as a living man in a tomb is\nalone.\n\n\"With a little fervor of troubled recollection, like a\nchild reciting a psalm, she told us how she rose to her\nfeet and gazed about her, pondering which way to take. And\nwhile she was yet doubtful a hand touched her elbow, and\nshe started to face a man that had come from behind her.\nStaring at his face with wits clenched like a fist, the\ncontours of the face in the water returned to her mind, the\nsharp brown face that had grown up in the middle of the\ncountenance she dreamed upon, and she knew in a moment that\nhere was the face again and the rest of the man with it.\n\n\"'I knew it at once when his teeth shone through his\nsmile,' she said. 'He was not so tall as I, and very brown\nin that sorrowful light, but not black. There was a robe he\nwore from his neck to his ankles that left one arm bare and\nthe little feet below its hem, and his head was bare with\nstraight black hair upon it. His hand was on my arm, and he\nstood before me and looked in my face and smiled a little\nat me, very gently and timidly.'\n\n\"It seems he found her scarcely less strange than she found\nhim. In his bearing was something of awe and wonder, while\nshe stared with a mere surprise.\n\n\"'Are you a man?' she asked at length, stupidly.\n\n\"He smiled yet. 'No,' he answered gently. 'But oh, you are\nbeautiful!'\n\n\"She replied nothing at first, and he went on with a soft\nvoice like the voice of a tender child. 'I saw you in the\nwater long ago, I looking up to you, you looking down to\nwhere I was hidden. I smiled to you and reached my hand,\nbut there was no smile on your face, and I did not dare\ntake you till--till this time. Then your hands were\nstretched forward, and as I clasped them you sank to me,--my\nbeloved! my beloved!'\n\n\"His brown face glowed upon his words with a fire of\nworship. She started back from him with a quick terror,\nhands clasped and lips parted.\n\n\"'Tell me,' she cried, 'tell me, where am I? What is this\nplace? Am I dead at last?'\n\n\"He soothed her. 'You are in my country,' he said very\ngently. 'Now it is your country, as I am yours. You are not\ndead but living, and brimming with the love I languish for;\nand here you will stay with me, and we will love one\nanother very tenderly in the heart of my gloom, and you\nwill be my bride.\n\n\"'Oh, listen to me!' he cried, when she would have\nanswered. 'Many slim and delicate girls have come to me\nthrough the mirror of the pool, but none such as you, with\na warm soul floating on your face and a bosom aching for\nlove. When first I saw you I yearned for you, I coveted\nyou. The thought of you was my food and drink, and stayed\nmy eyes from sleep; I set my spell on the waters that they\nshould slumber and hold your image unbroken, and now I have\nyou; you are here with me. You are mine.'\n\n\"He was glowing with a kind of eagerness it hurts one to\nrebuff, and she watched him, her fears under control, with\na growing wonder.\n\n\"'Yes,' she said slowly. 'It must be true, then--that old\ntale. You are Tagalash!'\n\n\"He smiled.  I am Tagalash,' he answered.\n\n\"'But,' she said, 'I am white!' For no one had ever heard\nof any but Kafir brides for Tagalash.\n\n\"He shrank a little, but smiled yet beseechingly, as he\nwould have her cease that part of the tale.\n\n\"'You are so beautiful,' he urged, come with me to my\nhouse, will you not?'\n\n\"But that she would not do, and moved not from her place on\nthe grassed knoll throughout her stay in the shadows--\nsomething like a week.\n\n\"'I am the wife of Johannes Olivier,' she said, and her\nwords sounded foolish in her own ears. 'I am a wife,' she\npersisted, there in that dead land of the black gods. 'I\nwant to go back,' she cried like a strayed child. 'I want\nto go back. I am afraid. Take me back to the light.'\n\n\"'He tried to comfort her with gentle words and talk of his\npassion and her beauty, but to no effect. She shrank from\nthe unnatural flesh of him; she panted as though the dust\nof tombs were in her nostrils; and at last he stood off,\nlooking at her with a mild trouble, and then he went away,\nand she was sitting once more alone amid the traffic of\nhushed voices and moving shadows.\n\n\"'There came no night,' she told us, in a voice that\nquavered uncertainly, 'always that unlovely twilight only;\nand I sat on the grass and wept. She had no sensation of\nhunger or sleep in that world, the whole of her stay. She\nstayed in the same place, dreary and waiting, with no\nactive hope and little fear--only a longing for the\nsunlight; and at last a dull pain of yearning for the rough\nred head and beefy texture of her human husband. A week,\nmind you--a week she stayed there thus, save when Tagalash\nwould come up unheard to court her again.\n\n\"After that first time he was a more cautious lover, and\nsat at her feet with lowered eyes pleading with her. One\nanswer always stilled him, and that was her cry of 'Take me\nback; I am afraid.'\n\n\"'You were not fashioned for a rude love,' he said to her\nonce.\n\n\"'Ah,' she answered then, 'but there is that in me that\nwelcomes a heavy hand and a strong arm.'\n\n\"'The others are like that,' he answered, as though\nspeaking to himself. 'But they have no such hungry beauty\nas you.'\n\n\"'My beauty,' she told him, 'is a chance vessel for a mere\nwoman's soul.'\n\n\"At last he became wistful, and seemed afraid to ask: for\nwhat he desired. 'But I can yet give to you,' he told her.\n'Say what you would have. I can bring it you.'\n\n\"'Then give me back to my world,' she cried. 'Do that, and\nI will thank you on my knees.'\n\n\"He sighed. 'Is that all you desire?' he said. 'Supposing I\ngranted you that, is there nothing you would take back with\nyou?'\n\n\"'No,' she answered.\n\n\"'No charm?' he asked again. 'Not a charm to compel love? I\ncan give you even that.'\n\n\"'Take me back,' she begged, 'and teach me how to win my\nhusband to forgive me.'\n\n\"He smiled very sadly, and she could almost have pitied\nhim, so poor he seemed, bereaved of his desire.\n\n\"'You are greater than Tagalash,' he said slowly, 'since\nyou make a slave of him. You shall have what you will. Go\nback to your world, my beloved, my love that shall\nhenceforth dread the still pools.'\n\n\"'So I came back,' she said, looking-round on us as though\nall were explained.\n\n\"'How?' we asked.\n\n\"'Why, I came,' she answered plaintively, and had no more\nto tell. She had been found sleeping on the grass near the\nspruit, after a week of absence during which the men of the\ndistrict had combed the very bushes for a trace of her.\n\n\"'But the charm?' asked one of us. 'The charm to win\nforgiveness? What was that?'\n\n\"She looked timidly at the tall Johannes who stood by her\nchair in silence.\n\n\"'I have forgotten what it was,' she answered with wet\neyes.\n\n\"'No,' he cried, bending to her lips. 'No!  It is a true\ncharm that, my kleintje.'\"\n\n\"Good old Tagalash!\" remarked Katje cheerfully.\n\n THE  HOME  KRAAL\n\nAfter sunset on a summer's day, when evening has overcome\nthe oppression of the still heat and breezes grow up like\nthoughts, the world of veld becomes odorous, and every air\nhas its burden of unforgettable scents.\n\nAs we sat in the stoop, steeped in a flood of shadow,\nlooking down over the kraals to where the grasses are ever\ngreen about the spruit, the Vrouw Grobelaar spoke gently.\n\n\"I should remember this,\" she said, \"after a hundred years\nof heaven. The winds of Mooimeisjes would call me even\nthen.\"\n\nKatje's hand moved in mine.\n\n\"It is home,\" said Katje.  \"It--it makes me want to cry.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar smiled. \"As for me,\" she answered, \"it\nmakes me think of nothing so much as that hollow beside\nCornel's grave, where, in my time, I shall go to my long\ndreaming. This place has peace written large on its face;\nand ah! it is at home that one would like to lie at last.\nYes, none of your damp churchyards for me! The home kraal,\nlike a Boer vrouw; for the grave and the home are never\nquite two things to us Boers. How some have striven for the\nhome kraal, that feared to lie with strangers. Allemachtag,\nyes!\"\n\nShe moved a little in her armchair, and we waited in\nsilence for the tale to come. Katje came closer to me, in\nthat way she has, like a dear child or a little dog.\n\n\"The Vrouw van der Westhuizen,\" said the old lady, \"had but\none child, a son.  Emmanuel, she called him, for a dozen\npoor reasons; and for him and in him she had her whole\nlife. The poor, they say, are rich in poor things, and this\nlad grew to manhood with a multitude of mean little vices\nand dirty ways which showed like a sign on his pale weak\nface, and summed up the trivial soul within for you at the\nfirst glance. Most of us have cause to thank God that He\nhas not written on our faces; but Emmanuel could have\ncarried no writing large enough for his mother to read.\nBecause he was weak and idle, two of her nephews lived on\nthe farm, Barend and Peter van Trump, great slow true men,\nwith hearts like children; yet she esteemed Emmanuel as\nmuch above them as they in truth, in all points of worth\nand virtue, were over him. Ah, but a mother is a traitor to\nthe whole world.\n\n\"I remember this Emmanuel well. A bony small man of the\ncolor of straw, with eyes that moved too quickly and a cold\nhand, a body like a wisp of linen-cloth-so flimsy and\nslight--and some slenderness at the knee that made him\nshamble like a thief! Peter stood with a great brown hand\non his shoulder, smiling at me with a frank open mouth and\ncheeks creased with pleasantry. When he laughed, his body\nshook mightily, and the motion of his hand made the other\nstagger. And the Vrouw van der Westhuizen stood there\nlooking, with eyes like pools of pride for her son.\n\n\"There was nothing in the farm to hold Emmanuel, no charm\nin the veld nor interest in the work. He was barely a man\nwhen he would ride on to the dorp and its saloons, and in\ntime he was there oftener and oftener, drinking and soiling\nhis hands with all the strange foulness of life the English\nbring with them. We, the neighbors round about, marked it\nof course; but none thought much of Emmanuel and his\ndoings; and the thing was little talked of till it became\nknown that at last he was gone for good, and had betaken\nhimself to live in a great town, among devilries that have\nno name in our clean Taal.\n\n\"It was a grievous blow for the Vrouw van der Westhuizen.\nFrom the time he departed, she became old; as she went\nabout her affairs, the woe at her heart was plain to see.\nShe was a stricken woman, the world had been cut from under\nher; and about her, now that her child was gone, she felt\nnothing familiar, but lived, dumb and bewildered, in a maze\nof strangers. Barend and Peter had no wits to console her.\nHow, indeed, should they have hoped to console a mother\nthus bereft? The days lounged by inexorably, bringing no\nword of Emmanuel with them, and no mercy. Their footprints\nwere the wounds upon the Vrouw van der Westhuizen's heart;\nand, in the end she sickened wearily and lay listless, due\nto death.\n\n\"Then only did the silence break and let through a word of\nnews. Some one--I cannot remember now who it was--had been to\nthe town to a law-case to be cheated of some land, and he\nbrought back news of Emmanuel--news that he was deadly ill\nin a mean place, and lacking money. He told it shortly to\nthe Vrouw van der Westhuizen, and she sent at once for\nBarend and Peter.\n\n\"'Get to your horses,' she told them, 'and bring my\nkleintje back to me. Be quick to bring him--why do you stand\ngaping like sick cows while he is dying? And take money.\nTake all the money that is in my box under the bed, in case\nhe should need something. Get the box out quickly, now!'\n\n\"They obeyed her. In the box was the money of the house, as\nthe Boers need to keep it, a great deal of money in\nsovereigns, very heavy to carry. But she would not even\nsuffer them to count it, so they filled a bag with it, and\nBarend tied it to his belt, and then they caught the horses\nand started on the long trek to the town.\n\n\"It is a journey of fifteen days by wagon, yet those two,\nby killing horses--they who used all beasts so gently--did it\nin three, and on the fourth, much troubled by the great\nthrong of people all about them, came to a narrow street,\nsmelling of poor food, and found the house in which\nEmmanuel lay. A woman with a cruel face and naked breasts\nopened to them, staring at their great size and their\nbeards, and showed them up a long stair to a room with a\nbed, from which Emmanuel looked up at them.\n\n\"It was a small room, tucked close under the roof, and held\nbut the tumbled frowsy bed, an uneasy table and a chair. On\nthe floor, clothes and boots lay heaped with old\nnewspapers, and the place was hot with stale air. From the\npillows, the face of Emmanuel met them with something of\nexpectancy; and the two big men, fresh from the wind of the\nveld, saw with a quick dismay how his pale skin stood tight\nover the bones of him, and a clear pink burned like a\ndanger lamp high up on each cheek.\n\n\"'I thought you would come,' said the sick man in a weak\nvoice, 'I knew it. I was sure I should not die alone in\nthis hole, while my mother's horses were sound. It is bad\nenough to die at all, but no man deserves to die away from\nhome.'\n\n\"Peter kneeled down beside the bed and would have passed an\narm under his shoulder. But he would not have it.\n\n\"'No need to slobber,' he said, with a note of contempt in\nthe voice that rang so faintly. The woman, who was leaning\nin the door, laughed harshly, and a passing smile flickered\nover Emmanuel's face.\n\n\"'I couldn't live, could I, Flo?' he said to her. 'But I\ncan die. You watch--it'll be worth seeing. What's that you\nhave at your belt, Barend? Not money?'\n\n\"Barend nodded. 'Yes, it is money,' he said. 'The ou ma\nsent it, if you should need it.'\n\n\"'Need it!' Emmanuel laughed harshly.\n\n\"'God, but I do need it. When didn't I? How much is it,\nman?'\n\n\"'She would not have us stay to count it,' answered Barend.\n'But it is a very great sum.' He loosened the bag from his\nbelt. 'All gold,' he added, and poured the sovereigns in a\nheap on the tumbled bed.\n\n\"'God! said Emmanuel again, striving to sit up. The woman\nat the door uttered a short oath and came forward with\nparted lips and bent over the gold.\n\n\"'Laddie, it's a pile,' she said hoarsely. 'A jugfull!' Her\ntwitching hands ploughed through the heap, and the coins\ntinkled among her fingers. She was glancing from one to\nanother of the men, and drew forth her hand clenched on a\nfull fist of sovereigns. Peter, still kneeling beside the\nbed, made a noise in his throat.\n\n\"She bent her look on him, a look of narrow warlike eyes\nand bared teeth, the first stare of a savage animal\ndisturbed on its kill; but the big Boer met her with a face\nof calm.\n\n\"'The ou ma sent it for Emmanuel,' he said slowly, and rose\nto his feet.\n\n\"She snarled at him, but Barend, with his teeth clenched on\nhis beard, moved to the door and stood there with his legs\napart and his great hands on his hips, filling up the way.\nEmmanuel lay on his back, breathing a little hard, the\ncolor pulsing in and out on his cheeks and a twisted smile\non his lips. She turned a second to him, as though to\nappeal, but saw him as he lay and said nothing.\n\n\"'Put that money, Emmanuel's money, back on the bed!' said\nPeter.\n\n\"She lifted it to her bosom as though to pouch it, but\nPeter moved his arm and she flung the coins suddenly on the\nfloor, and laughed gratingly at him.\n\n\"'D'you see that, laddie?' she called to Emmanuel. 'Oh, you\nsneering devil, gasping there, ain't you got a word to say\nto me? Say, can't I have some of this cash? There's enough\nhere to spare me a fistfull.'\n\n\"'Lift me up, Peter,' said Emmanuel. Peter raised him till\nhe sat upright, and held him with a long arm about his\nshoulders. Emmanuel reached forward hands thin as films of\nmilk, and shuffled the gold to and fro.\n\n\"'Can you have some?' he said, looking up at the woman.\n'You! Yes, you man-wrecking pirate, go down on your knees\nand whine for it, beg for it, pray with clasped hands for\nit, and you shall take as much as you can grasp. Do that,\nd'you hear? I want to see you on your knees for once and\ngroveling for a handful of sovereigns. Go on; get down with\nyou!'\n\n\"Barend gave a short laugh. It was amusing of Emmanuel, he\nthought, to promise this on a condition so impossible. The\nwoman spun on her heel and faced him sharply with bent\nbrows and a heaving bosom.\n\n\"'Kneel, my beauty,' said Emmanuel again mockingly, but\nwatching the woman as she stared at Barend. There was a\nkind of wonder on her dark cruel face as she studied the\nbig Boer's serene countenance and masterful poise of head,\nand noted there the mild amusement which is the scorn of a\ngood man.\n\n\"'Kneel now, and plead for it,' said Emmanuel again; and of\na sudden a doubt came over Barend. There was a distress\nplain to see, something remorseful and newly born surging\nin this harlot; there was an appeal, fiercely shameful, in\nthe hard eyes bent on his.\n\n\"Of a sudden she wheeled round and spat an awful curse at\nthe sick man. 'Keep your damned money!' she went on, while\nthe thick veins in her neck grew to dark ridges. 'D'you\nthink you can buy everything? You've sold your life and\nyour innocence for filth--d'you suppose it's all to buy? You\nan' me's in the same box, my boy--bad 'ems both, but you\ndon't make a dog of me.'\n\n\"She turned to Barend. 'Let me pass, you big hulking--'\nshe hesitated, looking at him.\n\n\"'Oh, you poor innocent,' she cried, with a laugh, and ran\npast him and out at the door.\n\n\"Emmanuel called after her, and bade her come back and take\nwhat she would, but her heels rattled on the stairway and\nshe was gone.\n\n\"'Is that the strange woman?' asked Peter, quoting from the\nProverbs.\n\n\"Emmanuel laughed. 'Strange as the devil,' he said, with\nhis voice running weak. 'You see souls in this town,\ncousins--not bodies only, as on the farm. Souls that blush\nand bleed, I tell you. But go to the head of the stairway,\nBarend, and shout as loud as you can for Jim. Just shout\n\"Jim\"!'\n\n\"Barend went and roared the name half a dozen times. There\ncame at last a man with a dirty coat buttoned to the neck,\ngrimy, ill-shod and white-eyed, and to him Emmanuel,\nspeaking from behind the heap of sovereigns, to which the\nman's evil pale eyes strayed every moment, gave orders.\n\n\"'Tell the boys,' he said, 'that there's a spree here\ntonight. Get the whole gang, Jim, and particularly Walters.\nAnd take what money you want, and send what is necessary up\nhere. Steal what you must, you hound, but leave us short of\nnothing, or my big cousins here will cut you to ribbons. Is\nthat not so, Barend?'\n\n\"'Whenever you please, Emmanuel,' said Barend.\n\n\"The man Jim took the money and went, and\n\nEmmanuel lay in Peter's arm, picking at the gold.\n\n\"'Shall I count it for you?' said Peter at last.\n\n\"'God, no!' said Emmanuel. 'Leave it, man. It's luxury not\nto know how much it is.' A dribble of coins tinkled from\nthe blanket to the floor. 'Don't pick them up,' he cried,\nas Barend stooped. 'This is like water in a long trek to\nme.' He picked up a handful of money and strewed it abroad.\n'I can die,' he said, 'now I've money to throw away, and\ntonight there'll be the end.'\n\n\"It was an orgy that evening. There came men and women to\nthat high room, where the evil man Jim had already disposed\nof bottles of spirits and of wine. The big Boers stood\nthere like trees among poppies. 'Tis an evil, leering\nflower, the poppy, with its color of blood and love mounted\non its throat of death. Barend and Peter, upright and\nstill, stood at the head of the bed watching them as they\nentered, lean, cruel-mouthed dogs of the city, whose eyes\nwent to the gold on the blanket ere they greeted the man\nthat had bidden them thither. Emmanuel, propped in his\npillows, his face a mask of hard mastery, his eyes like\nblurs of fire on a burned stick, looked at them as they\ncame in, yet ever his eyes returned to the door, as though\nhe sought some one who should yet come.\n\n\"Women spoke to him--handsome bold women with free lips, and\neyes that commanded eyes of men, and these he barely\nanswered. But a crisp step on the stairs brought the death\nspot hot and quick to his fevered cheeks, and there entered\na man.\n\n\"A small man, a dark man! Barend, talking afterwards, with\na pucker of wonder between his brows, said he was smooth.\nHe had a face that was keen and alert without being hard;\neyes that were quiet and yet judged; lips upon which there\ndwelt an armed peace and also a humorous curve. He seemed\nto have his own world, to blot from his consciousness that\nwhich displeased him; yet he himself was for those who\nlooked upon him a man blocking the horizon of life. A great\nman, I judge--that is, a man great in the qualities which\nneed but an aim to move mountains. God gives few such men\nan aim, or there would be more gods.\n\n\"Emmanuel spoke very quietly to him, but with no wheeze of\nweakness in his voice.\n\n\"'Good-evening, Walters,' he said.\n\n\"The newcomer but cast a glance over his shoulder. 'Ah!' he\nsaid, and his eye lighted on the gold, and his pleasant lip\ncurled further.\n\n\"'Has your mother died?' he asked. 'I suppose that's why\nyou're so gay. What a funny little beast you are, Van der\nWesthuizen!'\n\n\"'These are my cousins,' said Emmanuel.\n\n\"'They ought to suit you. They are as stupid as honest men,\nand as honest as stupid ones, This is Barend--that is\nPeter!'\n\n\"Walters looked up at them, and Peter held out a hand to\nhim. He took it, and smiled, and when Barend saw the grace\nand friendship of that smile, he too gave his hand.\n\n\"'You have come to take Emmanuel home?' said Walters.\n'Well, use him tenderly. If he is worth handling at all he\nis to be tenderly handled. But I am sure you will be\ngentle. You are too big to be rough.'\n\n\"He turned from them to a woman that was prattling near by,\nand at once entered her life, it seemed. She turned to him\nas one who worships.\n\n\"'Come, drink!' Emmanuel called to them. 'This is my\nfarewell, you people. I've come to the jump-off place.\nReach me a glass, somebody, and put something in it. What\nwill you have, Walters? Help yourselves, all of you.'\n\n\"With chattering and laughter the bottles passed about, and\na woman at the foot of the bed raised her glass with a\nflourish and drank to the sick man. 'You're game, boy,' she\ncried; 'you finish like a ferret!'\n\n\"Barend stood for three hours watching them, Peter by his\nside. 'It was like reading in Chronicles and Kings,' he\nsaid, when he related it later. 'There was a boil of\nbusiness all about, and drinking and gabbling, and I saw\nfaces, flushed and working, that I am sick to remember. The\nwine they drank came soon to possess them as Legion\npossessed the swine; in an hour they were lost to all\nreason and decency, and women were cursing in the voices of\nmen and men weeping loosely like women. They cast off their\nouter garments when the room grew hot, and lounged half-\nnaked; and of all of them, only two seemed to live aloof,\nlike men among beasts--Emmanuel and the young man Walters.\n\n\"'This young man passed in and out like an eel in water.\nNothing clung to him of all the filth in which he trod. He\ndrank, but was not less the master of himself; he jested,\nbut his laughter was the mirth of the pure in heart,\nwithout harshness in it, and they made him way and listened\nwhen he spoke; and even the gross, hot-eyed women dulled\ntheir terrible speech when he stood before them. The eyes\nof Emmanuel, propped in his bed, his blankets wet with the\nwine he spilled from his glass, were ever upon him. I think\nthe boy admired him. Whenever he stirred, sovereigns\ndribbled to the floor, but he looked not once after them;\nhe was all for watching Walters, who barely turned towards\nhim. Ah, but he was very sick, our Emmanuel! His breath\nrasped as he drew it; there was a fire in his great eyes\nthat made one tremble--that fire that makes you think of\nhell-fire and naked souls writhing in it. A look of savage\nhunger, but far off, as though desiring things not of\nearth!'\n\n\"A strange scene, was it not, for a chamber overshadowed by\nthe wings of death. Towards midnight, Emmanuel sighed, and\nslipped down a little. Peter moved to lift him and started\nat the pinch of death on his face. His exclamation drew\nmost of the others to look, but as they crowded near\nEmmanuel opened his eyes.\n\n\"'Walters,' he said faintly.\n\n\"'Well, my boy,' said Walters.\n\n\"'What-do-you-think-of-this?' Emmanuel asked, his weakness\nwatering his speech.\n\n\"Walters laughed quietly. 'I'll tell you in the morning,'\nhe said. 'But you're a good actor, my friend.'\n\n\"You'll see,' whispered Emmanuel, and closed his eyes\nagain.\n\n\"Then Barend bade them all go forth, and after awhile, when\nhe had taken one lewd man in his hands and cast him on the\nstair, they went, and the noise of their voices, raw and\nungentle, filtered away. The two Boers were left at the\nbedside, among the bottles and the gold and the strewn\nclothes; and Emmanuel lay rigid, with a buzz in his throat\nand a spot of blood on his lips. Peter kneeled and prayed.\n\n\"But in a couple of hours, when his face had grown thin and\nhis nose sharp, and his hands cold as clods, they saw he\nwas dead, and spoke together of what they must do. They\nknew nothing of that treacherous web of law and custom\nwhich is the life of a city; they knew only that their feet\nwere among pitfalls, and that they must move quickly if\nthey would take Emmanuel away to the farm and the kraal. So\nwhile Peter went forth to bring three horses, Barend sought\namong the garments scattered about the room and dressed the\nthin body in them, and put his own broad-brimmed hat on the\nfair head that should henceforth need no shelter from the\nsun. When he had done, Peter returned, and came up the\nstairs quietly.\n\n\"They took the body of Emmanuel under the armpits, one on\neach side of him, and thus carried him down the stairs. A\nman met them on the way, his face bland and foolish in the\nglow of a candle he carried.\n\n\"'Drunk, eh?' he said, without particular curiosity.\n'Almost dead, by the looks of him.'\n\n\"'Quite dead,' answered Barend, and they passed him and\ncame down to the horses, hitched at the sidewalk.\n\n\"They put the body in the saddle, and rode on either side,\nclose in, and Peter held it upright with a hand on its\nshoulder, as a man might conceivably ride by a comrade.\nThere was yet no light of day, only a grayness that\nstreaked the night sky, and a bitterness in the air like a\nnote of mourning. Slowly, walking their sleepy horses, they\npassed along the streets, dark save where a lamp at a\ncorner shed a yellow and dismal light about it. Creatures\nof the night, slouching here and there, looked at them;\npolicemen, screening from the wind in dark corners, thrust\nforth heads; but they rode on, and none stopped them, and\nthus they came forth of the city and faced the veld again.\n\n\"They raised their faces to its freshness, familiar and\nfriendly as the voice of one's kin, and pushed the horses\nto a trot, while behind them the blur of light that was the\ncity paled and died down as the miles multiplied under\ntheir hoofs. Peter had the leading rein of the middle horse\nwhile Barend steadied its burden, and thus they traveled\ntowards the east and home.\n\n\"When the sun was high, they no longer dared follow the\nroad. Out of those they must meet and exchange words with,\nthere would surely be some whom they could not deceive-some\nwho had seen death before and knew the signs of it. So they\npulled aside, and made for the high land of Baviaan's Nek,\nriding across the gray grass and among the yellow ant-hills\ntill close on noon. Then, dipping to a hollow, where some\nwillows cast a shade upon a pool of a spruit, they\ndismounted and laid the dead man in the cool, while they\noff-saddled the horses and rested themselves. There were\nbiltong and bread in their saddle-bags, and tobacco they\ndid not lack, and the need for food drove them to make a\nbig meal. They were concerned with this so deeply that they\ndid not notice that a Kafir, carrying the bundles which\nKafirs always carry on the trek, had come up to them.\n\n\"He was an old Kafir, his wool gray and his skin rough with\nage, but his eyes were bright with the full of strength and\npeaceful with wisdom. He lay down at the pool's brink and\ndrank, and then gave them good day.\n\n\"'Will the baas permit me to sit in the shade of the\ntrees?' he asked. 'It is hot traveling.'\n\n\"He looked from them to the stretched body of Emmanuel as\nhe spoke.\n\n\"'Sit over there, then,' said Barend, 'and see you keep\nquiet.'\n\n\"'Oh, I shall not wake that baas, at all events,' said the\nold Kafir, pointing to the body.\n\n\"Both the Boers were startled at this, but the man walked\ncalmly to the farthest tree, and piled his bundles there.\n\n\"'We all have our troubles,' he said, as he shook out his\nbrown blanket. 'Age for some of us, sorrow for others. And\nthen there is death, too. I am not dead, at least.'\n\n\"'Why do you talk of death?' demanded Peter sharply.\n\n\"The old Kafir held up a finger. There was a kind of mirth\nin his motion. 'Hush, or you will wake him,' he replied.\n'But I know all about death, except the taste of it. I know\nhow it looks, and how it lies on the ground, and how it\ncomes, and how it is concealed.'\n\n\"He raised his hard old face with eyes half-closed, and\nsnuffled at the air.\n\n\"'And how it smells, too,' he said.\n\n\"'You will learn the taste of it in a minute,' cried\nBarend, springing to his feet with a white face. 'You old\nscarecrow, what is it you are hinting about? Do you take us\nfor murderers?'\n\n\"The old Kafir sat down among his bundles and fumbled for\nhis pipe. There was no concern on him; he had the still\nease of one who comes upon his own special task, sees it,\nand knows he is the master of it. While Barend, shaking a\nlittle, stood gauntly over him, he filled his pipe, lit it,\nand blew forth a cloud of smoke.\n\n\"'Pooh!' he said. 'The baas gives too much importance to\ntrifles. A dead man is of less worth than a living one. It\nis the baas I am interested in--not the carrion.'\n\n\"He spat very leisurely and took the pipe to his lips\nagain.\n\n\"Barend, after a little hesitation, sat down again.\n\n\"'I have known white men,' said the old Kahr, leaning back\nagainst his tree, 'who scratched crosses in the ground, and\ntraced them on their breasts with a finger, when they came\nupon death or the dead. That is a strong charm. And in the\neast, yonder, are others who spill wine on the earth. But\nin my tribe we neither make crosses nor waste liquor. We\nspit. Where is the baas going?'\n\n\"'Across Baviaan's Nek,' said Barend, very quietly.\n\n\"'Ah! That is a long way. Tonight the baas should camp by\nthe huts that are over the drift where the great rocks are.\nThere are Kafirs there who will not fear this luggage of\nyours. They will sell food and shelter, and refrain from\ncuriosity. Will that serve the baas?'\n\n\"'Surely,' said Barend, and tossed him some tobacco.\n\n\"The old Kahr caught the horses for them and helped them to\nlift the dead man to the saddle. By this time the body had\nbecome stiff, and needed a constant effort to hold it\nsteady. The sun was hot as they rode on, and the dust\nsmoked up about the fetlocks of the horses. The stiff feet\nof the dead man were in the stirrups, and as now and again\nthey broke into a short canter, he seemed as though he\nwould stand up in his stirrups to look ahead.\n\n\"'So Emmanuel always did when he rode among ant-heaps,'\nsaid Peter once.\n\n\"Barend only grunted in reply; the strain on his arm and\nwrist was a heavy one.\n\n\"They camped that night at the huts the old Kafir had\nspoken of. The Kafirs there were of a large build, strong\nand silent. They glanced once or twice at the body, but\nsaid nothing.\n\nFood was forthcoming--, and a big clean hut, and here the\ntwo Boers slept beside the corpse. It was only next\nmorning, when they had mounted and were about to start,\nthat one, with the head-ring of dignity about his scalp,\ngave a word of counsel.\n\n\"He stood at Barend's bridle, looking up to him with a sort\nof pity.\n\n\"'The day will be hot, baas,' he said, 'and that will be\ndoubly burdensome. So you may know that beyond the Nek,\nwhere the mimosas grow on a damp plain, the ground is very\nsoft. There are huts there, and shovels.'\n\n\"Barend nodded his thanks, and they rode through the drift\nand up the Nek. It was, as the Kafir had predicted, a hot\nday. One of those days which come in the throng of the\nsummer, when the sun is an oppressor, ruthless and joying\nin pain, when the earth is dead with heat and dryness and\nthe very air forbears to take a freedom I When they came\ndown the slopes beyond the crest, the flanks and rumps of\nthe horses were slimy with running sweat, and red nostrils\nspoke of distress. The dead man sat in the saddle with a\nthin show of eyeball under each lowered lid, and a gleam of\nteeth above the sunken lower lip, yet for all the world\nlike one that follows a purpose, like one guiding himself\nto a steadfast end. In the face there was a growing hue\nthat does not visit the living, but the hat-brim cast a\nshadow over it that lent it an effect of deep gravity and\nsolemn intention.\n\n\"'He means to reach the farm.' said Barend, after glancing\nat him.\n\n\"Peter drew rein.  'And yet,' he said, 'he will never do it\nif we travel thus. We killed horses to make the city in\nthree days; going at this rate, it will take us six to\nreturn.'\n\n\"'Well,' replied Barend, 'what else is there to do?'\n\n\"'Only one thing,' said Peter, 'your horse is the weight-\ncarrier. You must take Emmanuel over your saddle-bow, and\nwe must kill more horses.'\n\n\"'But a dead man,' said Barend. 'It is like a blasphemy.'\n\n\"'We can do nothing else,' said Peter, and after a little\nmore talking they made the change.\"\n\nThe Vrouw Grobelaar paused and looked at us. Katje was\ntight in the crook of my arm.\n\n\"Words limp while horses stride free,\" she said, \"but\nconceive that ride. Taking horses where they could find\nthem, they rested no more, nor drew rein save to fill and\nlight their pipes. From Baviaan's Nek they traveled at the\ncanter across the mimosa swamp, and so by the Rhenoster\nDrift to Ookiep, where Barend's horse fell and he and that\nother rolled on the veld together. When Peter had found and\nbrought another horse, they made one stage to Jantje's\nKraal, and thence, galloping wordless through the night, to\nZwartvark. Long rides, you will say! Aye, rides to\nremember; but think of the brimming stillness of the\njourney, hushed and governed by that silent companion,\nwhile thought could not stray nor fancy escape from the\ndeath that chased at the elbow of each. When, on the third\nmorning, as the sun came spouting up from the low country,\nthey saw afar the roof that was their goal, Peter cried\naloud like a child awaking from evil dreams.\n\n\"Ere noon their hoofs knocked on the stones in the front\nkraal, and they bore the body to the shade of the tobacco\nshed.\n\n\"'And now,' said Peter, when that was done, 'who is to tell\nthe ou tante?'\n\n\"Barend leaned at the door-post with his arm cast up over\nhis face and said nought, but there came from the house a\ngirl of the neighborhood, who laid a finger to her lips.\n\n\"'Hush,' she said. 'Make no noise about this house. Where\nhave you been, the two of you? An hour earlier, and you had\nbeen in time. As it is, the Vrouw van der Westhuizen died\nwith no kin about her.'\"\n\n THE SACRIFICE\n\n\"Do not think,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar, looking at me\nwith a hard unwinking eye, \"that idle men should have\npretty wives. Though Katje will lose that poppy red-and-\nwhite when she begins to grow fat. Still--\"\n\nKatje made an observation.\n\n\"Her mother,\" pursued the Vrouw Grobelaar, still holding me\nfixed, \"spent seventeen years in one room, because she\ncould not go through the door; and when she died they took\nthe roof on and hoisted her out like a bullock from a well.\nBut as I was saying, it is not well that idle men--those\nwith leisure for their littlenesses, like schoolmasters and\ndoctors and Predikants should have pretty wives, or they\ntend to waste themselves. A man with real work and money\nmatters and the governing of cattle and land and Kafirs to\nfill his day, for such a one it is very well. Her\nprettiness is an interval, like the drink he takes in the\nnoonday. But for an idle man it becomes the air he\nbreathes. He is all-dependent on it, and it is a small and\nbreakable thing.\n\n\"Look how men have been wrecked upon a morsel of pink-and-\nwhite, how strong brains have scattered like seed from a\nburst pod for a trifle of hunger in a pair of eyes! I\nremember many such cases which would make you stare for the\nfoolishness of men and the worthlessness of some women.\nThere was the Heer Mostert, Predikant at Dopfontein, who\nfell to blasphemy and witchcraft when his wife Paula was\nsick and muttered emptily among her pillows.\"\n\nThe old lady shifted in her wide chair and took her eyes\nfrom me at last.\n\n\"She was pretty, if you like,\" she said. \"A tall girl, with\na small red mouth, and hair that swathed her head like\ncoils of bronze. The Predikant, who had more fire in him\nthan a minister should have, and more fullness of blood\nthan is good for any man, spent the half of his life in the\njoy of being near to her. She was full in the face and slow\nwith a sleek languor, but on his coming there was to see a\nquickness of welcome spread itself in her. She would flush\nwarmly, and her eyes would cry to him. Their love glowed\nbetween them; they were children together in that mighty\nbond. So when a spring that came down with chill rains\nsmote Paula with a fever, and laid her weakly on her bed,\nthe Predikant was a widower already, and walked with a face\nwhite and hard, drawn suddenly into new lines of pain and\nfear.\n\n\"Women are strange in sickness. Some are infants, greatly\nneeding caresses and the neighborhood of one tender and\nfamiliar. Others grow bitter, with an unwonted spite and\ntemper, venting their ill-ease on all about them. But after\nthe first, Paula was neither of these. The sense of things\nleft her, and she lay on her bed with wide eyes that saw\nnothing and spoke brokenly about babies. For she had none.\nThe doctor, a man of much brisk kindness, whose face was\ngrown to a cheerful shape, frowned as he bent above her and\nquestioned her heart and pulse. Paula was very ill, and as\nhe looked up he saw the Predikant, tall and still, standing\nat the foot of the bed, gazing on the girl's face that gave\nno gaze back; and there was little he could say.\n\n\"'Speak to her,' he told him.\n\n\"The Predikant kneeled down beside her, and took her hand,\nthat pinched and plucked upon the quilt, into his.\n\n\"'Paula!' he said gently. 'Wife!' and oh! the yearning that\nshivered nakedly in his voice.\n\n\"'Little hands,' moaned Paula weakly--'little hands beating\non my breasts.  Little weak hands; oh, so little and weak!'\n\n\"The Predikant bowed his head, and the doctor saw his\nshoulders bunch in a spasm of grief.\n\n\"'Paula!' he called again. 'Paula, dear. It is I--John.\nDon't you know John, Paula? Won't you answer me, dear?'\n\n\"With eyes shut tight, he lifted a face of passionate\nprayer.\n\n\"'Say daddy!' said Paula, crooning faintly. 'Say daddy.'\n\n\"The doctor passed his arm across the Predikant.\n\n\"'Come away,' he said gently. 'This does no good. Come\naway, now. There is plenty of hope.'\n\n\"He led him outside, rocking like a sightless man. When he\nsat down on the edge of the stoop, he stared straight\nbefore him for a little while, fingering a button on his\ncoat till it broke off. Then he flung it from him and\nlaughed--laughed a long quiet laugh that had no tincture of\nwildness.\n\n\"'Look here,' said the doctor, 'unless you go and lie down,\nyou'll not be fit to help me with Paula when I need you.\nLie down or work, whichever you please. But one or the\nother, my man.'\n\n\"'Suppose,' said the Predikant quietly--'suppose I go and\npray?'\n\n\"'That'll do capitally,' answered the doctor. 'But pray\nhard, mind. It might even do some good. There's nothing\ncertain in these cases.'\n\n\"'I have just been thinking that,' said the Predikant,\nturning to him with a face full of doubt.  But we can try\neverything, at any rate.'\n\n\"'We will, too,' said the doctor cheerfully; and then the\nPredikant passed to his room to pour out the soul that was\nin him in prayer for the life of Paula.\n\n\"It was a great battle the doctor fought in the dark room\nin which she lay. When late that night the Predikant, his\nface dull white in the ominous gloom, came again to the\nrail at the foot of the bed, his hand fell on something\nsoft that hung there.  It was Paula's long bronze hair they\nhad cut off for coolness to her head.\n\n\"The doctor did not wait for the question.\n\n\"'There will be a crisis before day,' he said.\n\n\"'What does that mean?' asked the other. The doctor\nexplained that Paula would rise, as it were, to the crest\nof a steep hill, whence she would go down to life or death\nas God should please.\n\n\"'But what can we do?' demanded the Predikant.\n\n\"'Very little,' replied the doctor. 'Beyond the care I am\ngiving her now, the thing is out of our hands. We can only\nlook on and hope. There is always hope.'\n\n\"'And always hope betrayed,' said the Predikant.  'But is\nshe worse now than she was this afternoon when she babbled\nof the little hands?'\n\n\"'Yes,' answered the doctor.\n\n\"'But I prayed,' said the Predikant, with a faint note of\nargument and question.\n\n\"'Quite right, too,' replied the doctor.' Go and pray\nagain,' he suggested.\n\n\"The Predikant shook his head.' It is wasting time,' he\nwhispered, and turned to tiptoe out. But at the door he\nturned and crept back again.\n\n\"'It is my wife, you see,' he said mildly--'my wife, so if\none thing fails we must try another. You see?'\n\n\"The doctor nodded soothingly, and the Predikant crept out\nagain.\n\n\"The doctor sat beside the bed and watched the sick woman,\nand heard her weak murmur of children born in the dreams of\nfever. It was a still night, cool, and hung with a white\nglory of stars, and the point at which life and death\nshould meet and choose drew quickly near.\n\nThere was this and that to do, small offices that a woman\nshould serve; but the doctor had ordered the women away and\ndid them himself. He was a large man, who continually fell\noff when he mounted a horse, but in a sick-room he was\nextraordinarily deft, and trod velvet footed. So in the\nbusiness of leading Paula to the point where God would\nrelieve him time went fast, and presently he knew the\nminute was at hand.\n\n\"He was sitting, intent and strung, when he heard from the\ngarden outside the house a bell tinkle lightly. He frowned,\nfor it was no time for noises; but it tinkled again and yet\nagain, louder and more insistent, while a change grew\nvisibly on the face of the sick woman, and he knew that the\nissue was stirring in the womb of circumstance. Then,\nbrazenly, the bell rang out, and with an oath on his breath\nhe rose and slipped soundlessly from the room.\n\n\"When he reached the garden all was still, and he loosed\nhis malediction upon the night air. But even as he turned\nto go back the bell fluttered near at hand, and he dived\namong the bushes to silence it He nearly fell over one that\nkneeled between two big shrubs and wagged a little ram\nbell.\n\n\"'What in hell is this?' demanded the doctor fiercely,\nseizing the bell.\n\n\"'It is me,' answered a voice, and the Predikant rose to\nhis feet. 'Be careful where you tread. There are things\nlying about your feet you had better not touch. Has it done\nher any good?'\n\n\"'You stricken fool!' cried the doctor, 'do you know no\nbetter than to go rattling your blasted bells about the\nplace tonight? You're mad, my man--mad and inconvenient.'\n\n\"'But is she better?' persisted the Predikant.\n\n\"'I'll tell you in ten minutes.' replied the doctor. 'But\nif you make any more noise you'll kill her, mind that.'\n\n\"The Predikant went with him to the stoop, and stayed there\nwhile the doctor returned to the bedside. At the end of an\ninterval he was out again, and took the husband by the arm.\n\n\"'It's over,' he said. 'She's doing finely. Sleeping like a\nchild. You can thank God now, Mynheer Mostert.'\n\n\"The Predikant stared at him dumbly.\n\n\"'Thank God, did you say?' he asked at last.\n\n\"'And me,' answered the doctor, smiling.\n\n\"'I do thank you,' answered the Predikant. 'I do thank you\nfrom my heart, doctor. But for the rest--'\n\n\"And here, with a voice as even as one who speaks on the\ntraffic of every day, with a calm face, he poured forth an\nawful, a soul-wracking blasphemy.\n\n\"'Here!' cried the doctor, startled. 'Draw the line\nsomewhere, Predikant. That sort of thing won't do at all,\nyou know.'\n\n\"'Now let me see my wife,' said the Predikant; and after a\nwhile, when he had warned him very solemnly on the need for\nsilence, the doctor took him in and showed him Paula, thin\nand shorn, sleeping with level breath. The Predikant looked\non her with parted lips and clenched hands, and when he was\noutside again he turned to the doctor.\n\n \"' I value my soul,' he said simply. 'But it is worth it.'\n\n\"'I haven't a notion what you are gibbering about,'\nanswered the doctor, who had a glass in his hand. 'But\nthere's long sleep and a dream killer in this tumbler, and\nyou've to drink it.'\n\n\"'I need nothing,' said the Predikant, but at the doctor's\nurgency he drank the dose, and was soon in his bed and\nsleeping.\n\n\"Next day, when he was let in to Paula's bedside, she\nsmiled and murmured at him, and nodded weakly when he\nspoke. The doctor warned him about noise.\n\n\"'We've won her back,' he explained, 'and she's going to do\nwell. But she has had a hard time, and there's no denying\nshe is very weak and ill. So if you go back to your bell--\nringing or any of those games you'll undo everything. She's\nto be kept quiet, do you hear?'\n\n\"'I hear,' answered the Predikant. 'There shall be\nstillness. Not that it matters for all your words, but\nthere shall be stillness.'\n\n\"'I warn you,' retorted the doctor seriously, 'that it\nmatters very much. You're off your axle, my friend, and I\nshall have to doctor you. But if I hear of any foolishness,\nPredikant or no Predikant, I'll have you locked up as sure\nas your name's Mostert.'\n\n\"He left him there, and started through the garden to his\ncart that stood in the road. On his way he stubbed his foot\nagainst something that lay on the earth--a great metal cup.\nHe picked it up.\n\n\"'I am not a heathen,' he said, as he brought it to the\nPredikant, 'and therefore a Communion-cup is no more to me\nthan a sardine tin, when it is out of its place. I don't\nwant to know what you were doing out here the other night,\nmy friend; but you had better put this back in the Kerk\nbefore somebody misses it.'\n\n\"The Predikant took it from him, but said nothing.\n\n\"'And look here,' went on the doctor, 'it was my skill and\nknowledge that saved your wife. Nothing else. Good-day.'\n\n\"As he drove off, he saw the Predikant still standing on\nthe stoop, the great cup, stained here and there with\nearth, in his hand.\n\n\"From that hour Paula mended swiftly. Even the doctor was\nsurprised at the manner in which health sped back to her,\nand the young roses returned to her cheeks.\n\n\"'There's more than medicine in this,' he said one day. 'Do\nyou know what it is, Predikant?'\n\n\"'Yes,' said the Predikant.\n\n\"'You do, eh? Well, it's clean young blood, my friend, and\nnothing else,' answered the doctor, watching him with a\nslight frown of shrewdness.\n\n\"The Predikant said nothing. For days there had been a kind\nof gloom on him, lit by a savage satisfaction in the\nbetterment of his wife. His manner was like a midnight, in\nwhich a veld-fire glows far off. He had grown thinner, and\nhis face was lean and gray, while in his eyes smouldered a\nspark that had no relation to joy or triumph.\n\n\"'Clean young blood,' repeated the doctor. 'No miracles, if\nyou please.' He thought, you see, he had divined the\nPredikant's secret.\n\n'I'm a man of science,' he went on, 'and when I come across\na miracle I'll shut up shop.'\n\n\"Paula, from her pillows, heard them with a little wonder,\nand she was not slow to see the trouble and change in her\nhusband's haunted face. So that night, when he came to say\ngood-night to her, she drew his hand down to her breast,\nand searched for the seed of his woe.\n\n\"'You look so thin and ill, my dear,' she said gently. 'You\nhave worried too much over me. You have paid too great a\nprice for your wife.'\n\n\"She felt him tremble between her arms.\n\n\"'A great one,' he answered, 'but not too great.'\n\n\"'Not?' she smiled restfully, as he lifted his face from\nher bosom and looked into her eyes.\n\n\"'Never too great a price for you,' he said. 'Never that.'\n\n\"'My love!' she answered, and for a while they were silent\ntogether.\n\n\"Then she stirred. 'Do you know, John,' she said, 'that you\nand I have not prayed together since first this sickness\ntook me? Shall we thank God together, now that He has\nwilled to leave us our companionship for yet a space?'\n\n\"'No!' he said quietly.\n\n\"'Dear!' She was surprised. 'I was asking you to thank God\nwith me.'\n\n\"He nodded. 'I heard you, but it serves no purpose. God\nforgot us, Paula.'\n\n\"His eyes were like coals gleaming hotly.\n\n\"'I prayed,' he cried, 'and yet you slipped farther from me\nand nearer the grave. I strewed my soul in supplication,\nand there was talk of winding-sheets. And then, in the keen\nhour of decision, when you tilted in the balance, I sought\nelsewhere for aid; and while I defiled all holiness, ere\nyet I had finished the business, comes to me that doctor\nand tells me all is well. What think you of that, Paula?'\n\n\"She had heard him with no breaking of the little smile\nthat lay on her lips--the little all-forgiving smile that is\nthe heritage of mothers,--and now that he was done she\nsmiled still.\n\n\"'I remember the old tales,' she answered.\n\n\"'How does the witch call the devil, John? Water in the\nCommunion-cup, bread and blood and earth--is that it? and\ntwo circles--two, is it?'\n\n\"'Three,' he corrected.\n\n\"'Ah, yes; three.' She laughed soothingly, 'You poor\nmuddled boy,' she murmured. 'Do you prize me so much, John?\nPoor John. You must let me be wise for both of us, John. I\nam not afraid of the devil, at all events.'\n\n\"'Nor I,' he answered, 'so long as you are well.'\n\n\"'But I am getting well now,' she answered, 'And I do want\nyou to pray with me, dear. Put your head down, dear, and\nlet me whisper to you.'\n\n\"She soothed him gently and sweetly, buttressing his\nweakness with her love. How can I know what she said or\nwhat he answered? She wrought upon him with the kind arts\nGod gives a woman to pay her for being a woman, and soon\nshe had softened something of the miserable madness that\npossessed him, and he kneeled beside the bed, sobbing\nrendingly, and prayed. Her hand lay on his head, and after\na while, when the violence had passed by, he was taken with\na serene peace.\n\n\"He bade her good-night, tenderly.\n\n\"'Good-night,' she answered, 'and, John--I would that I\ncould give you half of what you would have given for me.'\n\n\"As he went out at the door he saw her face smiling at him,\nwith a great warmth of love and pity transfiguring it.\n\n\"'Nest morning, when the doctor came, he stayed near an\nhour in her room, and then came to the Predikant.\n\n\"'Just tell me,' he said to him,--'just tell me straight and\nshort, what you did to your wife last night.'\n\n\"The Predikant told him in a few words what had passed\nbetween them, while the doctor watched him and curled his\nlip.\n\n\"'Exactly,' he said, when the Predikant had done. 'Quite\nwhat I should have guarded against in you. Now you may go\nto your wife as quickly as you like. She is dying!'\n\n\"It was so. She died in his arms in half an hour, with the\nlittle smile of baffled motherhood yet on her lips.\"\n\nKatje clenched her hands and looked out to the veld in\nsilence.\n\n\n THE COWARD\n\n\n\"After all,\" said the Vrouw Grobelaar weightily, \"a coward\nis but one with keener eyes than his fellows.  No young man\nfears a ghost till it is dark, but the coward sees the\nstars in the daytime, like a man at the bottom of a well,\nand ghosts walk all about him.\n\n\"A coward should always be a married man,\" she added, \"You\nmay say, Katje, that it is hard on the woman. It is what I\nwould expect of you. But when you have experience of\nwifehood you will come to the knowledge that it is the\nman's character which counts, and it is the woman's part to\nmake up his deficiencies. With what men learn by practicing\non their wives, the world has been made.\n\n\"If you would cease to cackle in that silly fashion I would\ntell you of Andreas van Wyck, the coward--a tale that is\nknown to few. Well, then.\"\n\n\"He was a bushveld Boer, farming cattle on good land, not a\nday's ride from the Tiger River. His wife, Anna, was of the\nde Villiers stock from over the borders of the Free State,\na commandant's daughter, and the youngest of fourteen\nchildren. They were both people of a type common enough.\nAndreas was to all seeming just such a Burgher as a hundred\nothers who have grown rich quietly, never heard of outside\ntheir own districts, yet as worthy as others whom every one\nnods to at Nachtmaal. Anna, too, was of an everyday\npattern, a short plump woman, with a rosy solemn face and\npleasant eyes--a sound Boer woman, who could carry out her\nsaddle, catch her horse and mount him without help. You\nsee, in her big family, the elders were all men, and most\nhad seen service against the Kafirs, and a girl there won\nesteem not by fallals and little tripping graces, but by\nusefulness and courage and good fellowship. She saw Andreas\nfirst when he was visiting his mother's aunt in her\nneighborhood. There was shooting at a target, for a prize\nof an English saddle, and no one has ever said of him that\nhe was not a wonderful shot. He carried off the prize\neasily, against all the Boers of those parts, and Anna's\nfather and brothers among them. A few months later they\nwere married.\n\n\"They drove from Anna's home to Andreas' farm on the\nbushveld in a Cape cart with two horses, and sat close\nunder the hood while the veld about them was lashed with\nthe first rains of December. It was no time for a journey\nby road, but in those days the country was not checkered\nwith railway lines as it is now, and Anna had nothing to\nsay against a trifle of hardship. For miles about them the\nrolling country of the Free State was veiled with a haze of\nrain, and the wind drove it in sheets here and there, till\nthe horses staggered against it, and the drum of the storm\non the hood of the cart was awesome and mournful. Towards\nafternoon, after a long, slow trek, they came down the\nslope towards Buys' Drift, and Andreas pulled his horses up\nat the edge of the water.\n\n\"The rains had swelled the river to a flood, and it ran\nwith barely a ripple where ordinarily the bushes were clear\nof the water. Full a hundred and fifty yards it spanned,\nand as they looked, they saw it carry past a dead ox and\nthe rags of uprooted huts.\n\n\"'We can never cross till it goes down,' said Andreas. 'I\nam sorry for it, but there is no choice. We must go back to\nyour father's house.'\n\n\"Anna pressed his arm and smiled.\n\n\"'You are joking,' she said. 'You know well that I will not\ngo back there tonight for all the floods in ten years. No\ngirl would that valued her husband and herself.'\n\n\"'But look at the drift!' he urged.\n\n\"'It is a big head of water,' she agreed. 'I was once\nbefore upset in such a flood as this. You must head them\nup-stream a little, and then strike down again to the\nopposite bank.'\n\n\"'Not I,' he answered. 'I am not going to drown myself for\na trifle of pride, nor you either. We must go back.'\n\n\"She shook her head. 'Not that!' she replied. 'Give me the\nreins and the whip.' Before he could resist she had taken\nthem from his hands. 'Put your feet on our box,' she\ndirected, 'or the water will float it away. Now then!'\n\n\"She drew the whip across the horses' quarters, and in a\nminute they were in the river, while Andreas sat marveling.\n\n\"'You understand that it was first necessary to move up-\nstream to a point in the middle of the river. She steadied\nthe horses with a taut hold on the reins, for her young\nwrists were strong as iron, and spoke to them cheerily as\nthe flood leaped against their chests, and they stood and\nhesitated. The rain drove in their faces viciously:\nAndreas, his face sheltered by the wide brim of his hat,\nhad to rub away the water again and again in order to see;\nbut Anna knit her brows and endured the storm gallantly,\nwhile with whip and rein and voice she pushed the team on\ntowards the place of turning.\n\n\"The rushing of the water filled their ears, and before\nthem, between the high banks of the Vaal, they saw only a\nworld of brown water, streaked with white froth, hurling\ndown upon them. It rose above the foot-board and swilled to\nthe level of the seat. The horses, with heads lifted high,\nwere often, for an anxious moment or two, free of the\nshifting bottom and swimming. A tree, blundering down-\nstream, struck the near wheel, and they were nearly\ncapsized, the water rushing in over their knees. As they\ntilted Andreas gave a cry, and shifted in his place. Anna\ncalled to her horses and knit her brows.\n\n\"At last it was time to humor them around, and this, as I\nneed not tell you, is the risky business in crossing a\nflooded drift. With somewhat of a draw on the near rein,\nAnna checked the team, and then, prodding with her whip,\nheaded the horses over and started them. They floundered\nand splashed, and Andreas half rose from his seat, with\nlips clenched on a cry. The traces tightened under the\nwater, a horse stumbled and vanished for a moment, and, as\nthe cart tilted sickeningly, the man, ashen-faced and\nstrung, leaped from it and was whirled away.\n\n\"The water took him under, drew him gasping over the\nbottom, and spat him up again to swim desperately. His head\nwas down-stream, and, as there was a sharp bend half a mile\nbelow, he had no extraordinary difficulty in bringing his\ncarcass to shore. He lay for a minute among the bushes, and\nthen ran back to see what had become of the cart, the\nhorses, and his wife. He found them ashore, safe and\nwaiting for him, and Anna wringing the wet from her hair as\nshe stood beside the horses' heads.\n\n\"'You are not hurt?' she asked, before he could speak. Her\nface was grave and flushed, her voice very quiet and\norderly.\n\n\"'No.' he said.\n\n\"'Ah!' she said, and climbed again into the cart, and made\nroom for him in the place of the driver.\n\n\"That was how he discovered himself to his wife. In that\none event of their wedding-day he revealed to Anna what was\na secret from all the world--perhaps even from himself. He\nwas a coward, the thing Anna had never known yet of any\nman--never thought enough upon to learn how little it may\nreally matter or how greatly it may ruin a character. When\nher brothers, having drunk too much at a waapenschauw,\nwished to make a quarrel quickly, they called their man a\ncoward. But for her it had been like saying he was a devil--\na futile thing that was only offensive by reason of its\nintention. And now she was married to a coward, and must\nlearn the ways of it.\n\n\"They spoke no more of the matter. Anna shrank from a\nreference to it. She could not find a word to fit the\nsubject that did not seem an attack on the man with whom\nshe must spend her life. They settled down to their\nbusiness of living together very quietly, and I think the\ncommandant's daughter did no braver thing than when she\nrecognized the void in her husband, and then, holding it\nloathsome and unforgivable, passed it over and put it from\nher mind out of mere loyalty to him.\n\n\"The years went past at their usual pace, and there\noccurred nothing to ear-mark any hour and make it\nmemorable, till the Kafirs across the Tiger River rose. I\ndo not remember what men said the rising was about.\nProbably their chief was wearied with peace and drunkenness\nand wanted change; but anyhow the commando that was called\nout to go and shoot the tribe into order included Andreas,\nthe respected Burgher and famous shot. The feldkornet rode\nround and left the summons at his house, and he read it to\nAnna.\n\n\"'Now I shall get some real shooting,' he said, with bright\neyes.\n\n\"She looked at him carefully, and noted that he lifted down\nhis rifle with the gaiety of a boy who goes hunting. It\nbrought a warmth to her heart that she dared not trust.\n\n\"'It is a pity you should go before the calves are weaned,'\nshe said.\n\n\"'Pooh! You can see to them,' he answered.\n\n\"'But you could so easily buy a substitute. It would even\nbe cheaper to send a substitute,' she urged half-heartedly.\n\n\"You see she had no faith at all in his courage. The years\nshe had lived with him had brought forth nothing to undo\nthe impression he had left in her mind when he sprang from\nthe cart and abandoned her in the middle of the Vaal River,\nand this emergency had awakened all her old fear lest he\nshould be proclaimed a coward before the men of his world.\n\n\"'I dare say it would be cheaper and better in every way,'\nhe answered with some irritation. 'But for all that I am\ngoing. This is a war, the first I have known, and I am not\ngoing to miss the chance. So you had better get my gear\nready!'\n\n\"With that he commenced to tear up rags and to oil and\nclean his rifle.\n\n\"She bade him adieu next day and saw him canter off with\nsome doubt. He had shown no hesitation at all in this\nmatter. From the time of the coming of the summons he had\nbeen all eagerness and interest. It might have led another\nto think she had been wrong, that the man who feared water\nfeared nothing else; but Anna knew well, from a hundred\nsmall signs, that her husband had no stability of valor in\nhim, that he was and would remain--a coward.\n\n\"Next day the fighting had commenced, and Anna, working\nserenely about her house, soon had news of it. There was a\npromise of interest in this little war from the start. The\ncommando, under Commandant Jan Wepener, had made a quick\nmove and thrust forward to the crown of the little hills\nthat overlook the Tiger River and the flat land beyond it,\nwhich was the home of the tribe. Here they made their\nlaager, and it was plain that the fighting would consist\neither of descents by the Burghers on the kraals, or of\nattacks by the Kafirs upon the hills. Either way, there\nmust be some close meetings and hardy hewing, a true and\nsearching test for good men. The young Burgher that told\nher of it, sitting upon his horse at the door as though he\nwere too hurried and too warlike to dismount and enter,\nrejoiced noisily at the prospect of coming to grips.\n\n\"Anna puckered her brows. 'It is not the way to fight,' she\nsaid doubtfully. 'A bush and a rifle and a range of six\nhundred yards is what beat the Basutos.'\n\n\"'Pooh!' laughed the young Burgher. 'You say that because\nyour husband shoots so well, and you want him to be marked\nfor good fighting.'\n\n\"She frowned a little, inwardly accusing herself of this\nsame meaning. She would gladly have put these thoughts from\nher, for brave folk, whether men or women, have commonly\nbut one face, and she hated to show friendship to her\nhusband and harbor distrust of him in her bosom. When the\nyoung Burgher at last rode away, galloping uselessly to\nseem what he wished to be--a wild person of sudden habits--\nshe sat on the stoop for a while and thought deeply. And\nshe sighed, as though pondering brought her no decision,\nand went once more about her work, always with an eye\ncocked to the window to watch for any rider coming back\nfrom the laager with news of affairs.\n\n\"But there was a shyness on both sides for a week. The\nKafirs had not yet ripened their minds to an attack on the\nhills, nor had the Burghers quite sloughed their custom of\norderliness and respect for human life. There was a little\nshooting, mostly at the landscape, by those whose trigger-\nfingers itched; but at last a man coming back with a hole\nin his shoulder to be doctored and admired halted at the\ndoor and told of a fight.\n\n\"He sat in a long chair and told about the pain in his\nshoulder, and opened his shirt to show the wound.  Anna\nleaned against the door-post and heard him. Outside his\nbrown pony was rattling the rings of the bit and switching\nat flies, and she perceived the faint smell of the sweat-\nstained saddlery and the horse-odour she knew so well.\nBefore her, the tall grimy man, with bandages looped about\nhim, his pleasant face a little yellow from the loss of\nblood, babbled boastfully. It was a scene she was familiar\nwith, for of old on the Free State border the Burghers and\nthe Basutos were forever jostling one another, and--I told\nyou her father was a commandant!\n\n\"'But tell me about the battle,' she urged.\n\n\"'Allemachtag!' exclaimed the wounded man. 'But that was a\nfight! It was night, you know, about an hour after the\ndying of the moon, and there was a spit of rain and some\nlittle wind. The commandant was very wakeful, I can tell\nyou, and he had us all out from under the wagons, though it\nwas very cold, and sent us out to the ridge above the\ndrift. And there we lay in the long grass among the bushes\non our rifles, while the feldkornet crawled to and fro\nbehind us on his belly and cursed those who were talking. I\ndidn't talk--I know too much about war. But your man did. I\nheard him, and the feldkornet swore at him in a whisper.'\n\n\"'What was he saying?' Anna asked quickly.\n\n\"'Oh, dreadful things. He called him a dirty takhaar with a\nhair-hung tongue, and--'\n\n\"'No, no!' cried Anna impatiently. 'What did my husband\nsay, I mean? What was he talking about when the feldkornet\nstopped him?'\n\n\"'Oh, he was just saying that it would be worth turning out\ninto the cold if only the Kafirs would come. And then he\ncried out, 'What's that moving?' and the feldkornet crawled\nup and cursed him.'\n\n\"'Go on about the fight,' said Anna, looking from him, that\nhe might not see what spoke in her eyes.\n\n\"'Yes. Well, I was just getting nicely to sleep, when\nsomebody down on my left began firing. Then I saw down the\nhill, the flashes of guns, and soon I could hear great\nlumps of pot-leg screaming through the air. They are firing\na lot of pot-leg, those Kafirs. I fired at a flash that\ncame out pretty regularly, and by and by it ceased to\nflash. Then, as I rose on my knees, a great knob of pot-leg\nhit me in the shoulder, and I cried out and fell down. Your\nhusband came to me and helped me to go back to the rocks,\nand soon after all the shooting stopped. The Burghers found\nthree dead Kafirs in the morning, so we won.'\n\n\"'You were very brave,' said Anna.\n\n\"'Yes, wasn't I? And so was your husband, I believe,' said\nthe wounded man. 'I couldn't see him, but I've no doubt he\nwas. They'll try to rush the drift again tonight.'\n\n\"'What makes you think so?' Anna demanded, starting.\n\n\"'Oh, they've been gathering for some days,' answered the\nother. 'It's what they are trying to do. You see there are\nno farms to plunder on the other side of the river, so they\nmust cross.'\n\n\"'I see,' said Anna slowly.\n\n\"When he was ready, she helped the wounded man again to his\nsaddle, and saw him away, then turned, with the light of a\nswift resolution in her eyes, to the task of getting ready\nto go to Andreas. The river and the hills were but a short\nsix hours from her farm, and on a horse she could have\nridden it in less. But it was no wish of hers to bring any\nslur upon her husband, so she prepared to go to him in a\ncart, taking shirts and shoes and tobacco, like a dutiful\nwife visiting her husband on commando. And for a purpose\nshe took no trouble to name to herself, she put in her\npocket a little pug-nosed revolver which Andreas had once\nbought, played with for a while, and then forgotten.\n\n\"A Kafir came with her, to see to the horses and so on, for\nshe was to travel in no other manner than that in which\nBurghers' wives travel every day; but once clear of the\nfarm she took the reins and the whip to herself, and drove\nswiftly, pushing the team anxiously along the way. So well\ndid she guide her path, that by evening they were slipping\ndown the road towards the drift of the Tiger River, and\nwhen the light of day began to be mottled with night, they\nhad crossed the drift and were passing up the right bank.\nWhen at length the darkness came, they were at the foot of\nthe hills which the commando held.\n\n\"Here Anna alighted, and left the 'boy' to outspan and\nwatch the cart. In a basket on her arm she had a bottle of\nwhiskey and a bottle of medicine for rheumatism, that would\nmake her coming seemly, and with the little revolver in her\npocket knocking against her knee at every step, she faced\nthe dark and the empty veld, and began the ascent of the\nhill alone. She was come to be a spur to her husband. This\nshe knew clearly enough, yet as she went along, with the\nthin wind of the night on her forehead, she wasted no\nthoughts, but bent herself to the business of finding the\nlaager and coming to Andreas. About her were the sombre\nhills, that are, in fact, mere bushy kopjes, but in the\ndarkness, and to one alone, portentous and devious\nmountains. Veld-bred as she was, the business of path-\nfinding was with her an instinct, like that of throwing up\nyour hand to guard your eyes when sparks spout from the\nfire. Yet in an hour she lost herself utterly.\n\n\"She strove here and there, practicing all the tricks of\nthe hunter to avoid moving in a circle, and so on. She\nwrenched her skirts through bushes that seemed to have\nhands. She plunged over stones that were noisy and ragged\nunderfoot; she tumbled in ant-bear holes and bruised\nherself on ant-hills. And after a long time she sat down\nand listened--listened patiently for the alarm of firing to\nbeckon a course to her. And there she waited, her basket on\nher knee, her arms folded across it, for all the world like\na quiet woman in church, with no tremors, but only a mild\nand enduring expectancy.\n\n\"It came at last, a tempest of shooting that seemed all\nround her. Below her, and to her left, there were splashes\nof white flame. The fighter's daughter knew at once that\nthese were from Kafir guns. Overhead, the rip-rip-rip of\nthe Burghers' rifles pattered like rain on a roof, like\nhoofs on a road. And all was near at hand. Despite her\nendeavors, she had come nearly the whole way round the\nhill, and was now barely outside the cross-fire. She stood\nup, shaking her skirts into order, and took in the\nposition. It was a bad one, but it pointed the way to\nAndreas, and, with a pat to her tumbled clothes she settled\nthe bottles safely again in the basket and resumed her\nclimbing.\n\n\"She thrust along through the bushes, while the clatter of\nthe rifles grew nearer, and presently there was a flick--\nlike a frog diving into mud--close by her feet, and she knew\nthere were bullets coming her way.  Flick-plop! It came\nagain and again and again.\n\n\"'Some one sees me moving and is shooting at me,' said Anna\nto herself, and stopped to rest where a rock gave cover.\nThe bullets, lobbing like pellets tossed from a window,\ncame singing down towards her, clicking into the bushes,\nwhile below she could see the progress of the battle\nwritten in leaping dots of fire.\n\nThe Kafirs were spreading among the boulders--so much could\nbe read from the growing breadth of the line of their fire,\nand Anna was quick to grasp the meaning of this movement.\nThey were preparing to rush the hill, as of old the Basutos\nhad done. The Kafirs with guns were being sent out to the\nflanks of the line to keep up a fire while the centre went\nforward with the assegais. It was an old manoeuvre; she had\nheard her brothers talk of it many times, and also--she\nremembered it now--of the counter-trick to meet it. There\nmust be bush at hand, to set fire to, that the advance may\nbe seen as soon as it forms and withered with musketry.\n\n\"Regardless of that deft rifleman among the Burghers who\ncontinued to drop his bullets about her, Anna took her\nbasket again on her arm, came forth from her rock, and\nresumed the climb. She was obliged to make a good deal of\nnoise, for it was too dark and uncomfortable to enable her\nto choose her steps well, Up above, the Burghers must have\nheard her plainly, though none but a keen eye would pick\nthe blackness of her shape from the bosom of the night. The\nsummit and the foot of the hill were alive with the\nspitting of the guns, and all the while the unknown\nsharpshooter searched about her for her life with clever\nplunging shots that flicked the dirt up. One bullet whisked\nthrough a piece of her skirt.\n\n\"'Now, I wonder if it can be Andreas who shoots so neatly,'\nsaid Anna, half-smiling to herself. 'He would be surprised\nif he knew what he is shooting at. Dear me, this is a very\nlong and tiresome hill.'\n\n\"It was almost at that moment that she heard it--the\nbeginning of the rush. There came up the hill, like a slow\nand solemn drum-music, the droning war-song of the Kafirs\nas they moved forward in face of the fire. It was an awful\nthing to hear, that bloody rhythm booming through the dome\nof the night. It is a song I have heard in the daytime, for\na show, and it rings like heavy metal. Anna straightened\nherself and looked about her; there was nothing else for it\nbut that she must start a fire, ere the battle-line swept\nup and on to the laager. It would draw more shooting upon\nher; but that gave her no pause. She had matches in her\npocket, and fumbled about her and found a little thorn-bush\nthat crackled while it tore her naked hands. Crouching by\nit, she dragged a bunch of the matches across the side of\nthe box,--they spluttered and flamed, and she thrust them\ninto the bush. It took light slowly, for there were yet the\ndregs of sap in it; but as it lighted, the deft rifleman\nsquirted bullet after bullet all around her, aiming on the\nweakling flame she nursed with her bleeding hands.\n\n\"But for this she had no care at all. She had ceased to\nperceive it. Sheltering the place with her body, she drew\nout more matches, tore up grass, and built the little flame\nto a blaze that promised to hold and grow. As it cracked\namong the twigs, she wrenched the bush from the ground and\nran forward with it upheld.\n\n\"'Burghers, Burghers!' she screamed. 'Pas op! The Kafirs\nare coming up the hill!'\n\n\"And whirling it widely she flung the burning bush from her\nwith all her force, and watched its fire spread in the\ngrass where it fell. Then she, too, fell down, and lay\namong the rocks and plants, scarcely breathing.\n\n\"Up above, the old commandant, peering under the pent of\nhis hand, saw the torch waved and the figure that flung it.\n\n\"'Allemachtag!' he cried. 'It's the Vrouw van Wyck!'\n\n\"The next instant he was shouting, 'And here come the\nKafirs! Shoot, Burghers, shoot straight and hard.'\n\n\"Where she lay, near the fire that now spread across the\nflank of the hill in broad bands among the dry grass and\nwithered bushes, the Vrouw van Wyck heard that last cry and\nlifted her head as a torrent of shooting answered it. The\nKafirs and the Burghers were at grips, and it seemed that\nall around her the night rustled with secret men that slunk\nabout. There was great danger to her at last, for either in\ngoing forward or going back she might fall into the hands\nof the Kafirs, and--oh, you can never tell what that may\nmean! At the best and choicest it is death, but at the\nworst it is torment with loathly outrage, the torment and\nthe degradation of Sheol. Anna knew that, knew it well and\nfeared it. That daunted her, and as the thought grew\nclearer in her mind, dread gripped her, and she huddled\namong the stones with ears alert and a heart that clacked\nas it beat.\n\n\"Noises threatened her, and to them, the casual noises of\nthe night, she gave ear anxiously, while above her the\nfight raged direfully and all unheard. At one time she\ntruly saw naked Kafirs go up the hill,--the light of the\nfire glinted on the points of their assegais and threw a\ndull gleam on the muscle-rippled skin of them. Next, stones\nfalling made her start, and ere this alarm was passed she\nheard the unmistakable clatter of shod feet among the\nboulders, and--plain and loud--an oath as some man stumbled.\nHe was already to be seen, vaguely; then he was near at\nhand, coming upon her.\n\n\"'Now, what in God's name is this?' she cried, and rose.\nIn her hand was the little blunt-nosed revolver.\n\n\"The man ran through a bush towards her, 'Anna,' he cried,\n'Anna!'\n\n\"It was Andreas, and he took hold of her body and pressed\nher close to him.\n\n\"She thrilled with a superb exaltation of pride and joy,\nand put her arms about him.\n\n\"'What are you doing here?' he demanded.\n\n\"'I was coming to you,' she said, and with a little laugh,\nas of a girl, she showed him the basket, with the bottles\nyet in it. 'And you?' she asked, then.\n\n\"'Me?' he said. 'Why, I've come for you, of course. The\nKafirs are at the ridge, and God knows what might happen to\nyou. Was it you I was shooting at down there all the time?'\n\n\"'You shot very well,' she answered, and showed him the\nhole in her skirt where the bullet had pierced it. She\nheard him mutter another oath.\n\n\"'But we must be going,' he said; 'this is no place to be\ntalking--no place at all. We must get round to the laager\nagain. Let me have your arm, and tread quietly, and we must\nleave the basket.'\n\n\"'Not I,' she answered. 'I have brought it all this way,\nand I will not leave it now.'\n\n\"He answered with a short laugh, and they commenced to move\nupward. But by now the fire had hold of the thorn-trees all\nabout, and their path was as light as day. It was too\ndangerous to attempt to climb to the ridge, and after\nwalking for a while they were compelled to find the cover\nof a rock and remain still. Anna sat on the ground, very\ntired and content, and her husband peered out and watched\nwhat was to be seen.\n\n\"'We have beaten them,' he said. 'I can see a lot of them\nrunning back. Pray God none come this way. I wish I had not\nleft my rifle.'\n\n\"'Yes,' said Anna, 'you left your rifle, and came unarmed\nto help me.'\n\n\"'It would have been awkward among the bushes,' he\nexplained, and was suddenly silent, looking out over the\ntop of the rock.\n\n\"'What is it?' asked Anna. He gave no answer, so she rose\nand went to his side and looked too, with her arms on his\nshoulder.\n\n\"The rip-rip of the Burghers' rifles sounded yet, but there\nwas now another sound. The bushes creaked and the stones\nrocked with men returning down the hill.  Not two hundred\npaces away they were to be seen--many scores of Kafirs\ndodging down-hill, taking what cover they could, pausing\nand checking at each rock and mound that gave shelter from\nthe bullets.\n\n\"Anna felt her husband quiver as he saw the crowd swooping\nupon him.\n\n\"'Take this,' she said, and pressed the little revolver\ninto his hand. 'It would be well not to be taken. But kiss\nme first.'\n\n\"He looked from the retreating and nearing Kafirs to her,\nwith a face knotted in perplexity.\n\n\"'It is the only thing,' she urged, and drew his lips to\nhers.\n\n\"He looked down at the little weapon in his palm, and spoke\nas with an effort.\n\n\"'I was never a brave man, Anna,' he said, 'and I can't do\nthis. Will you not do it?'\n\n\"She nodded and took the pistol. The Kafirs found nothing\nto work their hate upon.\"\n\n\n HER OWN STORY\n\n\n\"But what are you going to live on?\" asked the Vrouw\nGrobelaar.  \"You haven't got a farm.\"\n\n\"We're going to live in a town,\" answered Katje proudly.\n\nI interrupted here, and tried to make the old lady\nunderstand that even schoolmasters received some money for\ntheir work, and that there would be enough for two, without\nfrills.\n\nShe had no answer for the moment, but sat and looked at us\nboth very thoughtfully. Still, there was no hostility in\nher aspect; she had not her warlike manner, and seemed\nengrossed rather with an estimate of the situation than of\nits consequences. I had looked for opposition and\ndisparagement at least, volubly voiced and backed with a\nbloody example of a failure in marriage, and I know that\nKatje shared my misgivings. But here was something\ndifferent.\n\n\"You--you are not angry?\" asked Katje after a while.\n\nThe old lady started.  \"Angry! No, of course not. It is not\naltogether my affair, Katje. As time goes on, I grow\nnervous of stirring any broth but my own. If it were a\nmatter of mere wisdom, and knowledge of life, and the cool\nhead of an elder, I should not be afraid to handle you to\nsuit my ideas; but this is a graver piece of business.\nWisdom has nothing to do with it; those who are wise in\ntheir love are often foolish in their life. You've got your\nman, and if you want him you'll marry him in despite of the\ntongues of men and of angels. I know; I did it myself.\"\n\n\"You?\" cried Katje.\n\n\"Yes, me,\" retorted the Vrouw Grobelaar. \"Why not? Do you\nthink that a person of sense has no feelings? When I was a\ngirl I was nearly as big a fool as some others I could\nname, and got more out of it, in happiness and experience,\nthan ever they will.\"\n\n\"Tell us about it,\" suggested Katje.\n\n\"I am telling you,\" snapped the old lady.\n\n\"Don't interrupt. Sit down. Don't fidget; nor giggle.\nThere.\n\n\"When I was a girl,\" she began at last, \"my father's farm\nwas at Windhoek, and beyond the nek to the south, an easy\ntwo hours from our beacons, there lived one Kornel du\nPlessis. I came to know him, somehow. I saw him here and\nthere, till I had no wish to see any but him, and we\nunderstood one another very well. Ah, Katje, girls are\nlight things; but I truly think that in those days few Boer\nmaids had much mind for trivial matters in their loves when\nonce the man was found right and sound. Even at this length\nof time I have a thrill in remembering Kornel: a big man,\nand heavy, with thick shoulders, but very quick on his\nfeet, and eyes that were gray, with pleasant little puckers\nat the corner. He sat far back in his saddle and lolled to\nthe gait of the horse easily; such men make horse-masters,\nand masters of women. That is to say, they are masters of\nall.\n\n\"There was no kissing behind the kraal and whispering at\nwindows. Neither of us had a mind for these meannesses. He\ncame to my father's house and took food with us, and told\nmy father the tale of his sheep and cattle, and the weight\nof the mortgage on his farm. Though he was not rich, he was\nyoung and keen, and my father knew well that the richest\nare not those who begin life with riches. There would have\nbeen no hindrance to a marriage forthwith, but for some law\nbusiness in the town, of which I never understood the\ntruth. But it concerned the land and house of Kornel, and\nmy father would not say the last word till that should be\nsettled.\n\n\"It dragged on for a long while, that law matter, and the\nconversations between Kornel and my father ran mainly in\nguesses about it, with much talk that was very forlorn of\ninterest. But what did it matter to me? I had the man, and\nknew I could keep him; had I foreseen the future, even then\nI would not have cared. But for all that, I was very uneasy\none hot day when Kornel rode over with a grave face and\neyes that looked as though he had not slept the night\nbefore.\n\n\"My father gave him a sharp look, and pulled strongly at\nhis pipe, like a man who prepares for ticklish business.\n\n\"'You have news?' he asked.\n\n\"'Kornel nodded, and looked at me. It was a look as though\nhe would ask me to spare and forgive. I smiled at him, and\ncame and stood at his side.\n\n\"'From what you have told me,' began my father, looking\nvery wise, 'the water right may cut you off from the\npastures. Is that so?'\n\n\"'No,' said Kornel; 'all that is wrong.'\n\n\"'H'm. Indeed! Then you will have to carry your north\nbeacon farther to the east and lose the dam.'\n\n\"'Wrong again,' answered Kornel patiently.\n\n\"'Then you have won your case,' said my father, very eager\nto name the truth and prove his wisdom.\n\n\"'Dear me!' said Kornel;' you have no idea at all of the\nmatter. You are quite out in your guesses. I have not won\nmy case. I have lost it, and the land and the house and the\nstock along with it. I came over on a horse that is no more\nmine than this chair is. For all I know my very trousers\nmay belong to the other man. There you have it. What do you\nsay to that?'\n\n\"'Then you have nothing at all?' asked my father.\n\n\"'I have a piece of waste on the dorp road, near the\nspruit,' answered Kornel. 'There is a kind of hut on it.\nThat is all. It is only two morgen' (four acres).\n\n\"My father sat shaking his head in silence for a long time,\nwhile Kornel clenched and unclenched his hands and stared\nat the floor and frowned. I put my hand on his shoulder,\nand he trembled.\n\n\"'It is an affliction,' said my father at last, 'and no\ndoubt you know very well what you have done to deserve it.\nBut it might be worse. You might have had a wife, and then\nwhat would you have done?'\n\n\"One is wise to honor one's parents always, but one cannot\nbe blind. I think my father might sometimes have spoken\nless and done better for it.\n\n\"'We have talked about Christina yonder,' continued my\nfather, pointing at me with the stem of his pipe. 'It is a\ngood thing it went no further than talk.'\n\n\"'But it did,' I said quickly. 'It went much further. It\nwent to my promise and Kornel's; and if I am ready to keep\nmine now, I shall not look to see him fail in his.'\n\n\"Ah! He never needed any but the smallest spur. Your true\nman kindles quickly. At my word he sprang up and his arm\nfolded me. I gasped in the grip of it.\n\n\"'My promise holds,' he said, through clenched teeth.\n\n\"My father had a way of behaving like a landdrost\n(magistrate) at times, and now he wrinkled his forehead and\nsmiled very wisely.\n\n\"'When one's bed is on the veld,' he said,' it is not the\ntime to remember a promise to a girl. It is easier to find\na bedfellow than a blanket sometimes. And then, I am to be\nconsidered, and I cannot suffer this kind of thing.'\n\n\"'I think you will have to manage it,' answered Kornel.\n\n\"'Do you?' said my father. 'Well, I have nothing to give\nyou. Christina, come here to me!'\n\n\"Kornel loosed his arm and set me free, but I stayed where\nI was.\n\n\"'Father,' I cried, 'I have promised Kornel!'\n\n\"'Come here!' he said again. Then, when I did not move,\ndisobeying him for the first time in my life, his face\ndarkened.  'Are you not coming?' he said.\n\n\"'No,' I answered, and my man's arm took me again, tight--\ntight, Katje.\n\n\"'Well,' said my father, 'you had better be off, the two of\nyou. Do not come here again.'\n\n\"'We can do that much to please you,' answered Kornel, with\nhis head very high. 'Come, Christina!'\n\n\"And I followed him from my father's house. I had not even\na hat for my head.\n\n\"We were married forthwith, of course--no later than the\nnext day,--and the day after that I rode with my man to the\nplot beside the dorp spruit to see our home that had to be.\nThat was a great day for me; and to be going in gentle\ncompanionship with Kornel across the staring veld and along\nthe empty road was a most wonderful thing, and its flavor\nis still a relish to my memory. I knew that he feared what\nwe were to see--the littleness and mean poverty of it, after\nthe spaciousness of the farm; but most of all it galled him\nthat I should see it on this our first triumphant day. He\nwas very gentle and most loving, but shadows grew on his\nface, and there was a track of worry between his brows that\nspurred me. I knew what I had to do, now that our fortunes\nwere knitted, and I did it.\n\n\"The plot was a slope from the edge of the dorp to the\nlittle spruit, not fenced nor sundered in any way from the\nsqualid brick which houses the lower end of Dopfontein.\nFull in face of it was the location of the Kafirs; around\nit and close at hand were the gross and dirty huts of the\noff-colors (half-castes). The house, which was in the\nmiddle of the plot, was a bulging hovel of green brick, no\nmore stately or respectable than any of the huts round\nabout. As our horses picked their way through the muck\nunderfoot, and we rode down to it, the off-colors swarmed\nout of their burrows and grinned and pointed at us.\n\n\"Kornel helped me from my saddle, and we went together to\nsee the inside of the house. It was very foul and broken,\nwith the plain traces of Kafirs in each of its two rooms,\nand a horrid litter everywhere. As I looked round I saw\nKornel straighten himself quickly, and my eyes went to his.\n\n\"'This is our home,' he said bluntly, with a twitching of\nthe cheek.\n\n\"I nodded.\n\n\"'Perhaps,' he said in the same hard tone, as if he were\nawaiting an onslaught of reproach,--'perhaps I was wrong to\nbring you to this, but it is too late to tell me so now. It\nis not much--'\n\n\"I broke in and laughed. 'You will not know it when I have\nset it to rights,' I answered. 'It shall be a home indeed\nby the time I am through with it.'\n\n\"His cheek twitched yet, as though some string under the\nflesh were quivering with a strain.\n\n\"'It's you and me against all the evil luck in the world,'\nhe cried, but his face was softening.\n\n\"I cowered within the arm he held out to me, and told him I\nwas all impatience to begin the fight. And he cried on my\nshoulder, and I held him to me and soothed him from a\nspring of motherhood that broke loose in my heart.\n\n\"Within a week we were living in the place, and, Katje, I\nhope you will feel yet for some roof what I felt for that,\nwith all its poorness. It was the first home of my\nwifehood: I loved it. I worked over it, as later I worked\nover the children God bestowed on me, purging it, remaking\nit, spending myself on it, and gilding it with the joy of\nthe work. From the beams of the roof to the step of the\ndoor I cleansed it with my hands, marking it by its\nspotlessness for the habitation of white folk among the\nyellow people all around. Kornel did little to aid me in\nthat--for the most part he was seeking work in the town; and\neven when he was at home I drove him sharply from the labor\nthat was mine, and mine alone. The yellow people were very\ncurious about it all, and would stand and watch me through\nthe door till Kornel sjamboked them away; and even then\nsome of their fat talkative women would come round with\noffers of help and friendship. But though we were fallen to\npoverty, we had not come so low as that; and few came to me\na second time, and none a third.\n\n\"Still, though Kornel humbled himself and asked very little\nmoney, there was no work to be had in the dorp. No\nstorekeeper had a use for him, and the transport agents had\ntoo many riders already. Day after day went by, and each\nday he came back more grim, with a duller light in those\nkind eyes of his and a slower twinkle.\n\n\"'You must trust in yourself,' I told him, as he sat by the\ntable and would have it that he was not hungry.\n\n\"'I trust in you,' he answered, with a pitiable attempt at\nhis old sparkle. 'You have proved yourself; I have not--yet,\nand I could do the work of three Kafirs, too.'\n\n\"The next day he came home at noon, with a swing in his\ngait and his fingers working.\n\n\"'I've got work,' he said, 'at last.'\n\n\"I stopped sewing and looked at him. 'Is it a white man's\nwork?' I asked.\n\n\"'It is work,' he retorted.\n\n\"'Very well,' I said; 'but remember, we sink or soar\ntogether, and in neither case will I blame you. If you get\nwhite man's work, you shall have a white man's wife; but if\nyou are going to do the work of Kafirs--'\n\n\"'Yes,' he said; 'and what then?'\n\n\"'In that case,' I answered, 'I shall do washing to eke it\nout and be a level mate for you.'\n\n\"'By God, you won't!' he cried, and his hand came down hard\non the table. There was no mistaking his face: the command\nand the earnestness of it lighted up his eyes. I stared at\nhim in a good deal of surprise, for though I had known it\nwas there, this was the first I had seen of the steel\nstrain in my man.\n\n\"'Call it Kafir work, or what you please,' he went on, with\na briskness of speech that made answer impossible. 'You\nwill keep this house and concern yourself with that only.\nThe gaining of money is my affair. Leave it to me,\ntherefore.'\n\n\"I cast down my eyes, knowing I must obey, but a little\nwhile after I asked him again what the work was to be.\n\n\"'Making bricks,' he answered. 'Here we have the spruit at\nour door and mud for the picking up. It needs only a box-\nmould or two, and it will be funny if I can't turn out as\nmany good bricks in a day as three lazy Kafirs. Old Pagan,\nthe contractor, has said he will buy them, so now it only\nremains to get to work.'\n\n\"As he said this, I noticed the uneasiness that kept him\nfrom meeting my eye, for in truth it was a sorry employ to\nput his strength to,--a dirty toil, all the dirtier for the\nfact that only Kafirs handled it in Dopfontein, and the pay\nwas poor. From our door one could always see the brick-\nmaking going on along the spruit, with the mud-streaked\nniggers standing knee-deep in the water, packing the wet\ndirt into the boxes, and spilling them out to be baked in\nthe sun or fired, as the case might be. There was too much\ngrime and discomfort to it to be a respectable trade.\n\n\"But Kornel went to work at once, carrying down box-moulds\nfrom the contractor's yard, and stacking them in the stiff\ngray mud at the edge of the spruit, I went with him to see\nhim start. He waded down over his boots, into the slow\nwater, and plunged his arms elbow-deep into the mud.\n\n\"'Here's to an honest living,' he said, and lilted a great\nlump of slime into the first box and kneaded it close.\nThen, as he set it aside and reached for the next, he\nlooked up to me with a smile that was all awry. My heart\nbled for him.\n\n\"'But there's no time to be polite,' he said, as the mud\nsquelched into the second box. 'Here's the time to prove\nhow a white man can work when he goes about it. So run back\nto the house, my kleintje, and leave me to make my\nfortune.'\n\n\"And forthwith he braced himself and went at that sorry\nwork with all his fine strength. I had not the heart to\nstay by him; I knew that my eyes upon him were like\noffering him an insult, and yet I never looked at him save\nin love. But once or twice I glanced from the doorway, and\nsaw him bowed still over that ruthless task, slaving\ndoggedly, as good men do with good work.\n\n\"When the evening meal was due he came in, drenched from\nhead to foot, and patched and lathered with the pale sticky\nmud; but though he was so tired that he drooped like a sick\nman where he stood, his face was bright again and his eyes\nwere once more a-twinkle with hope and confidence.\n\n\"As he changed his clothes and washed himself, he talked\ncheerily to me through the wall, with a spirit like a\nboy's.\n\n\"'I've begun, at any rate,' he called out, 'and that's a\ngreat thing. If I go as far forward as I've gone back, I\nshall be satisfied. Where did you say the comb was?'\n\n\"And all through supper he chattered in the same vein,\nrejoicing in the muscles that ached with work and in his\ncapacity to do more and bear more than the Kafirs who were\nhis rivals.\n\nFor me, I was pleased enough and thankful to hear the heart\nof him thus vocal, and to mark the man I knew of old and\nchose to be my mate come to light in this laborer, new from\nhis toil.\n\n\"We did not sit late that night, for, with all his elation\nand reawakened spirits. Kornel was weary to the honest bone\nof him, and swayed with sleep as he stood on his feet. He\nrolled into my clean, cool sheets with a grunt of utter\nsatisfaction. 'This is comfort indeed,' he said drowsily,\nas I leaned over him, and he was asleep before I had\nanswered.\n\n\"At daylight he rose and went forth to the spruit again,\nand there all day he labored earnestly. Each time that I\nlooked towards him I saw his back bent and his arms\nplunging in the mud, while the rows of wet bricks grew\nlonger and multiplied. I heard him whistling at it,--some\nEnglish melody he had gathered long before at a\nwaapenschauw,--with a light heart, the while he was up to\nhis knees in the dirty water, with the mud plastered all\nover him.\n\n\"By and by I went down to the bank and asked him how he\ndid. He straightened himself, grimacing humorously at the\nstiffness of his back, and answered me cheerily.\n\n\"'Tomorrow old Pagan will come down and pay for what I have\ndone,' he said. I think he will be surprised at the amount.\nHis Kafirs have no such appetite for it as I.' And he\nlaughed.\n\n\"It was a dreadful business he had taken in hand, and work\nhard beyond believing. The boxes stood in a pile above the\nstream, and each had to be reached down as one was filled,\nand as soon as two were full Kornel must climb the bank to\nset them aside. When all were full, they had to be turned\nout on the level ground, and all this, as you can see,\nmeant that he must scramble up and down in the heavy mud,\ntaxing every spring in his poor body. Yet he toiled\nceaselessly, attacking the job with a kind of light-hearted\ndesperation that made nothing of its hardships, bringing to\nit a tough and unconquerable joy in the mere effort, which\ndrove him ever like a spur.\n\n\"As I watched him delving, I thought that here a woman\ncould render some measure of help, and as he turned from\ntalking to me I began to empty out the boxes that were\nready and stack them again on the pile. I had not yet\nturned out ten bricks when he saw me, and paused in his\nmelancholy work.\n\n\"'Stop that!' he cried, and scrambled out of the spruit to\nwhere I stood. 'I suppose,' he went on, 'you would like\nyour father to know that I had suffered you to work for me\nlike a Kafir.'\n\n\"'Kornel!' I cried in horror.\n\n\"But he was white on the cheek-bones and breathing hard,\nand I could not soften him.\n\n\"'Rich man's daughter or poor man's wife,' he said, 'you\nare white, and must keep your station. It is my business to\nsell myself, not yours. Get you back to the house I have\ngiven you, and stay there.'\n\n\"And with that he picked up the soft bricks I had turned\nfor him, and threw them one by one into the spruit.\n\n\"'Poverty and meanness and all,' he added, 'it shall not be\nsaid at your father's house that you worked for me. Nor\nthat you lacked aught it became you to have, neither,' he\nadded, with a quick heat of temper. 'Get to your house.'\n\n\"I slunk off, crying like a child, while he went back to\nthe mud--and the labor.\n\n\"Next day came Pagan to pay for the work that was done. He\ndrove up in his smart cart, and tiptoed his way daintily to\nthe edge of the spruit where the bricks lay. He was an old\nman, very cleanly dressed, with hard white hair on his head\nand face, and a quick manner of looking from side to side\nlike a little bird. In all his aspect there was nothing but\nspoke of easy wealth and the serenity of a well-ordered\nlife; there was even that unkindly sharpness of tone and\nmanner that is a dead-weight on the well-to-do. My husband\nwas at work when he drove up, but he straightened his back,\nsquared his broad shoulders, and came up from the mud,\nwalking at the full of his height and smiling down at the\nrich man with half-closed eyes.\n\n\"'Daag, Heer Pagan,' he said to him, in the tone of one who\nneeds and desires nothing, and held out his hand--mud from\nthe elbow--with something lordly in the gesture. The rich\nman cocked his head quickly, in the way he had, and hung in\nthe breeching for a moment, ere he rendered his hand to\nKornel, with a reddening of the cheek above his white\nwhisker that betrayed him, I thought, for a paltry soul.\n\n\"'I've come to see your bricks,' he said curtly, 'and to\npay for 'em, if they're all right.'\n\n\"'Ah, the bricks,' said Kornel airily. 'Yes, to be sure.\nThere they are. Go and count them, if you like, and then\nyou can come to me at my house where the Vrouw du Plessis\n(which was me) will give us some coffee.'\n\n\"I was watching, you may be sure, and again I saw the\nwintry red swell above the white whisker, and I clenched my\nhands in wrath and contempt at the creature's littleness. I\nwas sure he would have liked to sweep my man's courtesy\naside, and certainly the politeness had a prick in it. He\nwas rich, and old, and fat, with a consequence in his mien\nand an air that hinted he was used to deference, and Kornel\nwas but a muddy brick-moulder. Yet there stood my man, so\neasy in his quiet speech, so sure of himself, so dangerous\na target for contempt, that the rich man only stammered.\nKornel nodded as though he understood the invitation to be\naccepted, and walked up to the house, leaving old Pagan to\ncount the bricks and follow.\n\n\"I kissed him as he came in. 'You've trampled his dirty\nsoul under your heel,' I said, 'and I love you for it. I\nlove to see you upright and a man of purpose; whatever\ncomes of it, I shall honor you always.'\n\n\"He kissed me and laughed. 'Nothing will happen, if we are\nlucky,' he said. 'There is more in John Pagan than the big\nstomach and the money. But we mustn't crawl to him; I'll\nwager he never crawled himself when he was poor.'\n\n\"I set the coffee ready, spreading the table with a fine\ncloth I had brought from Kornel's farm, one of the few\nthings we had taken with us, and presently in came old\nPagan. Directly I saw him I felt a doubt of him; there was\na kind of surreptitious viciousness showing in his sour\nsmile that warned me. He was like a man who is brewing an\nunpleasant joke.\n\n\"'Ah, Mrs. du Plessis,' he said, 'your man will have been\nworking very hard.'\n\n\"'You know what brick-moulding is, then?' I said.\n\n\"He grinned. 'A little,' he said; 'yes, a little. There's\nfew jobs I haven't put a hand to in my time. Work's a fine\nthing, when a man knows how to work.'\n\n\"'You are very right,' agreed Kornel.\n\n\"'This is good coffee,' said John Pagan, as he stirred his\ncup. 'In fact, it's better than the bricks.'\n\n\"'A better hand was at work on it,' said Kornel.\n\n\"'So I should judge,' answered Pagan sleekly. 'I should\nlike another cup of this coffee, if I may trouble you, Mrs.\ndu Plessis.'\n\n\"He laid his cup on the table and bit his nails while I\nfilled it, glancing round at my poor room the while and\nsmiling to himself.\n\n\"'Yes,' he said, 'I like the coffee, but I don't like the\nbricks. They're no good at all.'\n\n\"We both stared at him, silent and aghast, and the white-\nhaired old man chuckled in our stricken faces.\n\n\"'What is wrong with them?' demanded Kornel at last. His\nface was white, but he spoke quite naturally.\n\n\"'Aha!' laughed old Pagan.  'Ye see, there's no trade, that\nye can take up without a bit o' learning, not even makin'\nmud-bricks. The very same thing happened to me. Lord, it's\npast forty years ago, I turned out six hundred dozen, and\nhad 'em thrown on my hands. It nearly broke my heart.'\n\n\"'I can understand that,' said Kornel. 'But what is wrong\nwith my bricks?'\n\n\"Old Pagan set his cup back on the table and sat up in his\nchair. As he began to speak he hitched back the sleeves of\nhis coat and moved his neck in his white collar.\n\n\"'See here!' he said. 'It's a little thing, like turning up\nthe toe of a horseshoe, but just as essential. When ye set\nyour full moulds out to dry, did ye set 'em on edge, to\ndrain away the water? Ye did not? Well, that's what's\nwrong. They're just mud-pies-lumps o' damp dirt, that'll\ncrumble as soon as they're dry. There's ninety dozen of\n'em, by my count, and there'll not be three dozen that ye\ncould use in any way consistent wi' conscience. Do ye take\nmy meanin'?'\n\n\"Kornel nodded very thoughtfully.\n\n\"'Well, you'll just need to get to work again,' said the\nold man. 'Maybe I'm not exactly keen on greetings and\ninvitations and the like, but you'll not be able to teach\nme anything on bricks. So if ye're thinking anything about\nthe splendor o' your work, wait dll ye're master of it\nbefore you waste more thought. I'm your better as a\ncraftsman,' he said, with a glance towards me.\n\n\"I was red all over, what with shame and sorrow, but I\nmarked that the paltriness seemed to have gone from John\nPagan as soon as he began to talk of work. He turned then\nto Kornel with a briskness that was not unkindly.\n\n\"'I was relying on you for bricks,' he said, 'for you can\nwork, and that's a fact. Perhaps you can let me have a\nhundred dozen by Thursday, eh? I'm waitin' on them. And if\nyou make sure of it, I'll do wi' ye what's my common\ncustom, and that's pay half the price in advance. How's\nthat suit?'\n\n\"Kornel rose from his chair and stammered thanks, and John\nPagan paid the money on to the table.\n\n\"'I'll be down on Thursday to see the bricks,' he said,\n'and don't forget the dodge I told ye. And maybe Mrs. du\nPlessis 'll be willing to give me coffee again when I come.\nSo good-day to ye, and mind--drain 'em!'\n\n\"When he was gone Kornel and I looked at each other and\nlaughed emptily. Then he went out to the mud again to make\nready for Thursday.\n\n\"So it was we lived for a time that was shorter than it\nseemed, building on the mud of our shaky fortunes a pride\nthat our poverty could not overturn. Kornel had a saying\nthat seemed irreligious but very true. 'There are ministers\nand farmers and lawyers who are rich,' he would observe,\n'but there's no money in work,' I have since been won to\nbelieve that there is a flaw in the argument, but for us it\nwas true, and bitterly true. We were never on the right\nside of ten shillings; we were never out of sight of the\nthin brink of want. That we were preserved and kept clear\nof disaster was due only to the toil of Kornel and my own\nanxious care for the spending of the money. I found out\nthat a wife who is strong has a great trade to drive in\nupholding her house; and I, at any rate, was proficient in\nmaintaining cleanliness, in buying and making food, and\npreserving to my home the atmosphere of happiness and\nwelcome that anchors a man to his own place. Take it all in\nall, we were happy, and yet I would not pretend that there\nwere not grim hours when we wondered if the mere living\nwere worth all that it cost. Kornel, hard as iron always,\ngrew lean and stooped, and there appeared in his face a\nkind of wild care that frightened me. From the chill\nupcoming of the dawn to the rising of the wind at evening\nhe taxed himself remorselessly at the sorry work in the\nmud, while I scrubbed and scraped and plotted and prayed to\nmake the meagre pay cover wants that were pared meagre\nenough. Yes, there were certainly times when we thought the\ncost too great, but, God be praised, we never thought it at\nthe same moment, and the stronger always upheld the weaker.\n\n\"And there was never any shame in the matter. Even as we\nfeared nothing, we were never ashamed. Never!\n\n\"One morning--, about an hour before high sun, when the dust\nlay thick on the road into the town that passed our land,\nand the neighborhood around was feverish with the fuss of\nthe Kafirs and yellow folk, I stood for a moment at my\ndoor, looking down to where Kornel was fervently at work in\nthe spruit. There was always traffic on the road at that\nhour, and something drew me to look towards it. At once I\nsaw my father. He was riding in, dressed in his black\nclothes, very solemn and respectable, with his beard\nflowing over his chest. At the same moment he saw me, and\nseemed to start in his saddle and glance quickly at all\nabout--at my poor little house, the litter that lay about,\nthe squalor of the town-end we lived in, and the laborious\nbent back of my man as he squattered about in the mud. He\nchecked his horse an instant, as though by an impulse; for\nmy father, though I honored him, was a weak man, in whom no\npurpose was steadfast. I saw the wavering in his face and\nthe uncertainty of his big pale eyes; and then, half-\nnodding to me as though in an embarrassment, he pushed on\nand entered the town. I went down and told Kornel.\n\n\"'H'm!' He stood as though in thought, looking up to me\nfrom the water. 'Your father, eh? Would you like him to\ncome and see you?'\n\n\"I nodded.\n\n\"He laughed and climbed up the bank to me. 'So would I,' he\nsaid. 'I have a stiffness in my back that makes me inclined\nfor anything rather than this work. Even your father.'\n\n\"We walked up to the house together, and Kornel's brow was\ncreased with thought, while his lips smiled.\n\n\"'You see,' he said, 'we want nothing from him--nothing at\nall, so we can't afford to be humble. Have we any money at\nall?'\n\n\"'We have three shillings,' I answered, 'and I owe one\nshilling for food.'\n\n\"'That's not enough,' he said, shaking his head. 'You say\nhe saw me working? We must have thirty shillings at least;\nwe must treat him well; I can't let him off now that he has\nseen so much. We'll stuff him till he bulges like a rotten\ncask, and wishes he could make bricks as I can. I wonder if\nPagan would pay me in advance for a thousand dozen. I'll go\nand ask him.'\n\n\"He started for the door at once, but turned and came back\nto me.\n\n\"'He said once he had nothing to give me,' he whispered to\nme.  Do you grudge me this, kleintje.'\n\n\"'Not I,' I answered. 'I only wish we could do more.'\n\n\"He kissed me and was off in a moment. Pagan made no\ndifficulty about the money. He looked at Kornel shrewdly\nwhen my man made the request, and paid at once.\n\n\"'It suits me ye should be a wee thing in my debt,' he\nsaid. 'But you're so damned proud, there's times I'm scared\no' ye. Sign yer name here.'\n\n\"'Now,' said Kornel, when he had put the money in my hand,\n'get what you need for a dinner that will tickle the ou\npa's stomach, and a bottle of whiskey. There never was a\ndeacon that did not suffer from some complaint that whiskey\nwould ease; and I'll get into what clean clothes I have and\ngo to look for him.'\n\n\"So I bought the dinner. I was willing enough to suffer the\nemptiness to come, if only I could wipe from my father's\nmemory his impression of my man's poverty; but all the\nsame, in case he should refuse to visit us, I bought things\nthat would last long enough to serve ourselves until the\nthirty shillings should have been earned. They made a good\nshow: for I have never been a fool in the matter of food,\nand I knew my father's tastes. I promised myself that his\ndinner should be his chief memory of that day, at all\nevents. He was, I fear, the kind of man who remembers his\ngood dinners better than anything else.\n\n\"It was a long time before they came, and I had given up\nall hope of the visit when I heard their voices. Or rather,\nit was Kornel's voice that I heard, in a tone of careless\ncivility, like one who performs a casual duty of\npoliteness. He was talking nonsense in a slow drawl, and as\nthey picked their way from the road to the house my father\nlooked up to him in a kind of wonder.\n\n\"'The evenings are pleasant here,' Kornel was saying. 'We\nhave a little time to ourselves then, for people have\nlearned at last not to trouble us much. One sees the sun go\ndown yonder across the hills, and it is very pretty, Now,\non the farm, nobody ever knew how handsome the sunset is.\nWe were like Kafirs on the farm; but life in the town is\nquite different.'\n\n\"He chattered on in the same strain, and my father was\nplainly dazed by it, so that his judgment was all fogged,\nand he took the words at their face value. I noticed that\nmy father seemed a little abashed and doubtful; it was easy\nto see that this was the opposite of what he had expected.\n\n\"He greeted me with a touch of hesitation in his manner;\nbut I kissed him on the forehead and tried to appear a\nfortunate daughter--smiling assuredly, you know, glad to\nexercise hospitality and to receive my father in my own\nhouse. It was not all seeming, either; for I had no shame\nin my condition and my husband's fortune,--only a resentment\nfor those who affected to expect it.\n\n\"'You are looking well,' said my father, staring at me.\n'How do you like the life you are living?'\n\n\"Kornel smiled boldly across to me, and I laughed.\n\n\"'I was never so happy in my life,' I answered--and that, at\nany rate, was true.\n\n\"My father grunted, and sat listening to the gentle flow of\ntalk with which Kornel gagged him the while I busied myself\nwith the last turn of the cooking and set the table to\nrights. But he glanced at me from time to time with\nsomething of surprise and disapproval; perhaps a white\nwoman with no Kafir servant had never met his eyes before.\nKornel did not miss the expression of his face.\n\n\"'We will show you something new in the dinner line,' he\nremarked knowingly. 'There are things you can't teach to a\nKafir, you know.'\n\n\"'What things?' demanded my father.\n\n\"'Ah, you shall see in a moment,' answered Kornel, nodding\nmysteriously. 'Christina will show you. Have you ever heard\nof a ragout?'\n\n\"My father shook his head. Neither had I; but I held my\ntongue.\n\n\"'Well,' said Kornel, 'a ragout is a fowl cooked as\nChristina has cooked it. It is a very favorite dish among\nthe rich men in Johannesburg. If you will draw up your\nchair to the table you shall see.'\n\n\"It is true that I had a good hand with a fowl, stewed in a\nfashion of my own, which was mainly the outcome of\nignorance and emergency; but it was very fortunate that on\nthat day of all days the contrivance should have turned out\nso well. It was tender, and the flesh was seasoned to just\nthe right flavor by the stuff I stewed with it--certain\nherbs, Katje, and a hint of a whiff of garlic. Garlic is a\nthing you must not play with: like sin, you can never undo\nit, whatever forgiveness you win. But a leaf or two bruised\nbetween two clean pebbles, and the pebbles boiled with the\nstew, spices the whole thing as a touch of devil spices a\nman.\n\n\"You maybe sure I was anxious about it, and watched Kornel\nand my pa as they started to eat. Kornel swallowed his\nfirst mouthful with an appearance of keen judgment; then he\nwinked swiftly to me, and nodded slightly. It was his\npraise of the dish. Oh, if you had known my man, you would\nnot need telling that that was enough for me. My father\ncommenced to eat as though curious of the food before him.\nHe gave no sign of liking or otherwise; but presently he\nsquared his shoulders, drew his chair closer to the table,\nand gave his mind to the matter.\n\n\"'That's right, walk into it,' said Kornel. \"'It is very\ngood indeed,' said my father, eating thoughtfully, and\npresently I helped him to some more. Kornel gave him soda-\nwater with whiskey in it, and thereafter there were other\nthings to eat--nearly thirty shillings' worth. After that\nthey sat and smoked, and drank the strong coffee I made for\nthem, and passed the whiskey bottle to and fro between\nthem. All the while Kornel babbled amiably of foolish\nthings, sunsets, and Shakespeare and the ways of women,\ntill I caught myself wondering whether indeed he relished\nthe change from the wide clean veld of the farm to this\nsqualid habitation of toil.\n\n\"'I suppose,' said my father at last, when Kornel had\nfinished talking about sunsets,--'I suppose a ragoo, as you\ncall it, is very expensive to make?'\n\n\"'I really couldn't say,' answered Kornel. 'But I should\nthink not.'\n\n\"'H'm; and you think a Kafir could not be taught to make\nthem?'\n\n\"Kornel laughed. 'I should be sorry to try,' he said.\n\n\"My father pondered on that for a while, smoking strongly\nand glancing from time to time at me.\n\n\"'I'm growing an old man,' he said at last, 'and old men\nare lonely at the best.'\n\n\"'Some seem to wish it,' said Kornel.\n\n\"'I say they are lonely,' repeated my father sharply. 'I\nhave no wife, and I cannot be bothered with getting another\nat my time of life.'  He shook his gray head sadly. 'Not\nthat I should have to look far for one,' he added, however.\n\n\"Kornel laughed, and my father looked at him angrily.\n\n\"'If it had not been for you,' he said, 'I should still\nhave had my daughter Christina to live with me. I am tired\nof being alone, and I cannot nurse the wrong done me by my\nown flesh and blood. You and Christina had better come out\nto the farm and live with me.'\n\n\"'And leave my business?' asked Kornel.\n\n\"'Oh, there is mud and water on the farm, if your business\npleases you,' retorted my father. 'But out there we do not\ntake the bread out of the mouths of Kafirs.'\n\n\"'I see,' answered Kornel briefly; and I, who watched him,\nknew from his voice that there was to be no truce after\nthat, that we should still earn our livelihood by the mud\nbricks.\n\n\"'You will come?' asked my father.\n\n\"'Good Lord, no!' replied Kornel. 'You would weary me to\ndeath in a week, I don't mind being civil when we meet, but\nlive with you! It would be to make oneself a vegetable.'\n\n\"My father heard him out with a grave face, and then rose\nto his feet. There was a stateliness in his manner that\ngrieved me, for when a man meets a rebuff with silence and\ndignity he is aging.\n\n\"'You are right, perhaps,' he said. 'I don't know, but you\nmay be. Anyhow, I have enjoyed an excellent meal, and I\nthank you. Good-bye, Christina!'\n\n\"When he was gone, Kornel turned to me.\n\n\"'It is evident you cannot have both a husband and a\nfather,' he said; 'but I am sorry for the rudeness,\nkleintje. He is a greater man than I.'\n\n\"'I think you might have made it otherwise,' I answered,\nfor my heart ached for my father.\n\n\"He shrugged his shoulders. 'You must manage to forgive\nme,' he said. 'I have a thousand dozen bricks to make, and\nthat will be punishment enough.'\n\n\"'But you will not start again tonight!' I cried, for it\nwas already the thin end of evening, and he was taking off\nhis clean clothes.\n\n\"'A thousand dozen is a big handful,' he answered, smiling.\n'There's nothing like getting a grip on the work ahead.'\n\n\"So in a few minutes he was down in the water again, and\nthe mud flew as he worked at the heart-breaking task he had\ntaken upon him. After all, the ragout was expensive to\nmake. It came dearer than we expected.\n\n\"Late into the night he held on, though thrice I went out\nto the bank of the stream to beg him to quit it and come to\nbed. There was a great pale moon that night, which threw up\nthe colors of things strongly, and I have yet in my mind--\nand my heart--that picture,--the stained water, and the bank\nof gray mud over it, and between the two my Kornel bent\nover the endless boxes, vehemently working with no\nconsideration for the limits of his strength. His arms\ngleamed with the wet, and were ceaseless; he might have\nbeen a dumb machine, without capacity for weariness. If he\nhad toiled before, now he toiled doubly; there was a\ntrouble in his mind to be sweated out and a debt of money\nto be repaid. And also, like a peril always near at hand,\nthere was the thin margin that stood between us and\nstarvation.\n\n\"When he came to bed at length, he lay down without the\ngreeting he was wont to give me--lapsed into his place\nbeside me with the limpness of a man spent to the utmost\nounce. He slept without turning on his side, his worn\nhands, half-closed, lying loosely on the quilt. Yet within\nan hour after daylight he rose with narrow, sleep-burdened\neyes, fumbled into his clothes, and staggered out to the\nspruit again, to resume his merciless work with the very\nfever of energy.  The Kafirs that worked leisurely on the\nnext plot stopped to look at him and to wonder at the speed\nwith which the rows of drying bricks lengthened and\nmultiplied. I saw them pointing as I stood at the door,\nheavy-hearted and anxious, and envied the ease of their\nmanner of life, and the simplicity that could be content\nwith such work at such a wage. Yes, I have envied Kafirs,\nKatje; there are times for all women when we envy the dead.\n\n\"But it was the day after that that the trouble came upon\nus, great and violent and unawaited. Kornel had been up at\ndaybreak again, working as strongly as ever, though his\nmouth was loose with the strain and his face very yellow\nand white. The drying and the dry bricks were lying on the\nground in long rows, and some which were hard were already\nstacked to make room for others. It was a tremendous output\nfor one man in the time it had taken; and when the Kafirs\nturned out, gabbling and laughing as usual, they stopped to\nlook in surprise at our plot and the great quantity of\nbricks. They gathered in a group, and talked among\nthemselves and pointed, and presently I was aware there was\nsomething toward. One of them in particular,--a great brown\nbrute, with bulky shoulders and huge arms, seemed to be\nconcerned in the affair; he stared continually towards\nKornel, and talked loudly, his voice running up into the\nsqueak of a Kafir when he is excited, or angry, or afraid;\nand presently he stepped over our border line and walked\ndown to the bricks. He was jabbering to himself all the\ntime as he stooped and picked up bricks and examined them\nclosely, and glanced down to the spruit where Kornel was\nstill working.\n\n\"I watched him, but I said nothing, hoping he would go away\nbefore Kornel saw him; but he kept on, and presently my man\nlooked up.\n\n\"He saw the Kafir at once, and climbed up the bank pretty\nquickly. There was something like a smile on his face, a\nlook as though he had found the relief he needed. He walked\nswiftly over to the Kafir.\n\n\"'What are you doing here?' he demanded, keeping his eyes\nunwinkingly on the staring eyes of the Kafir.\n\n\"The latter held a dried brick in his great paw, and now he\nthrust it forward and broke into a torrent of speech. He\naccused Kornel of having trespassed in the night and stolen\nthe bricks of the Kafirs. No man, he said, could have made\nso many by himself, and then he began to call names. I\nshuddered and put my hands before my face, and took them\ndown again in time to see Kornel's fist fly up and out, and\nthe great Kafir reel back from a vicious blow in the face.\n\n\"But he gave way for a moment only. Next instant he\nrecovered and his huge arm rose, and I screamed and ran\nforward as the brick, dry and hard as a stone, struck\nKornel on the head and tumbled him, loosely like a dead\nman, among the rows of bricks about him. I did not see the\nKafir run away; I saw only the thin white face of my man\nturned up to the sun, and the blood that ran from his brown\nhair. I lifted his head and called to him; but his head\nlolled on his shoulders, and I let him lie while I ran out\ncrying to find help.\n\n\"It was some of the yellow folk who carried him in for me,\nand brought the German doctor.\n\n\"Kornel was on the bed when he came, and he caused the cut\nto be bandaged, and then spoke abstrusely of the effect of\nthe blow, so that I understood nothing at all. I learned,\nhowever, how I was to tend him, how feed him, and how he\nwould lie unconscious for long intervals when there would\nbe nothing at all to do for him. But he told me I had\nnothing to fear in the end. Indeed, he had a kind of\ncheeriness which seems to belong to doctors, which did much\nto comfort me and steady me for what was to come. Kornel\nwould not die, he said; and it was that assurance I chiefly\nneeded.\n\n\"The day went slowly for me, I can tell you. There was yet\nfood enough in the house to last us a little while, and I\nmade a mess for Kornel, and ate what I wanted myself. He\nrecovered his sense of things once or twice, but when night\ncame he dropped off again into a stupor from which he was\nnot to be roused, and it was then I left him. I felt as\nthough I were a traitor to him in his weakness; but my mind\nhad buzzed hopelessly all day about the problem of our mere\nliving, and I saw nothing else for it, so down I went to\nthe spruit to earn what I might for my sick husband.\n\n\"The moon gave me light, and I had watched Kornel often\nenough to know how to go about the work. But the water, as\nit flowed about my legs, bit me with a chill that made me\ngasp, and the effort of the work, the constant bending and\nlifting, tried every muscle in my body. I had seen the\ncruelty of the work in its traces on Kornel, and knew how\nlittle it gave and how much it took; but with this first\ntrial of it came the realization, never lost since, of how\ngallant a man I had chosen to stand between me and the\nworld, and how much I owed him. I had not time to think a\ngreat deal, for the torture of brick-making is partly in\nthe tact that while it wrenches the body, it joins the mind\nto its infinite triviality. If you think, you do not pack\nthe mud as it must be packed, and the sun crumbles your\nbricks to dust. It is no task for a real man at all; even\nfor a woman, it debases, it unmakes, it breaks.\n\n\"I worked hard at it, husbanding my strength, and within an\nhour I was weak and foolish with the effort. Twice I had\nleft it to go in and see if all was well with Kornel, and\nthis rested me; but I was now resolved that I must rest no\nmore, if ever our debt was to be paid and bread earned for\nthe grim days to come. So I stayed in the bitter water and\nworked on, till even the sense of pain was dulled and it\nseemed that I was past the capacity of feeling.\n\n\"I was toiling thus (never mind my old troubles, Katje,\ndear; this is years ago) when a sound came to my ears that\ncaused me to look up. It had been going on for some time,\npersisting till it gained my notice, and suddenly I became\naware that there were men on our ground among the bricks. I\nclimbed half-way up the bank to look at them, where they\ncould not see me; and I saw several dark figures bent to\nsome business or moving here and there. I caught the sound\nof hushed voices, too, though no words; and then the hot\nwrath set my blood racing as I realized what was going on.\nThe Kafirs, who knew my man was wounded and helpless--the\nvery beast who had felled him--were stealing the bricks he\nhad labored so stoutly to make. My head swam with a\ndelirium of vivid anger at the meanness of the crime, and\nwithout calculation, with no thought of fear, I scrambled\nup and ran at them, shouting.\n\n\"I suppose they were surprised at my coming out of the\nspruit, and some of them ran as soon as they heard me.\nOthers stood and waited ominously--you know what a Kafir is\nwith a woman,--and doubtless I should have met my last\nearthly troubles then and there, but that from the road\nbeyond us there were other shouts, and men came running.\n\n\"I saw the forms of the rescuers as they raced up, and\nmarked one tall young man who ran past me with his arm\nlifted before him. There was a flash and a bang, and I sat\ndown heavily as the white men shot at the Kafirs who were\nnow all running to cover. It took but an instant, and I\nremember it as one remembers a thing seen at night by a\nlightning flash, sharp and feverish.\n\n\"'Ye've no need to be feared,' someone said to me. 'They're\nonly my clerks, but they're a handy lot.'\n\n\"A short stout man was standing over me, and as I looked up\nI saw it was old Pagan. Away in the darkness there were yet\ncries and the sound of blows, where the white men pursued\nthe Kafirs.\n\n\"'Ye see,' continued the old man, 'I heard o' what had\nhappened, an' I counted on this. I'm a man o' experience,\nMrs. du Plessis, an' the very same thing happened to me\nonce. So I got a few o' my lads along, and we've been\nwaitin' for what ye might call the eventuality. I'm no'\nexactly a negrophilist, ye ken. An' after seem' you\nsquatterin' about in the mud yonder, while yer husband was\nsick a-bed, there was no holdin' the lads. No' that I\nendeavored to restrain them, in any precise sense.'\n\n\"Away in the darkness a Kafir shrieked agonizedly.\n\n\"'There ye are,' said the old man. 'Yon's chivalry. If ye\nhad been a man, they'd never ha' put their hearts into it\nlike that.'\n\n\"He helped me to my feet and gave me an arm towards the\nhouse.\n\n\"'There's just one thing,' he said, 'and it's this. I'm no'\nquite the slave-driver ye might take me for--workin' in the\nnight to drag a pittance out o' me! For instance, I've a\njob in the store that yer man can have, if it'll suit him,\nand if you're willing yerself. It's no' a big thing, but\nit's white. And for the present while, I dare say I can\nadvance ye enough to be going on with. And me and the lads\n'll say no word about seein' you at yer work.'\n\n\"What is the use of carrying this tale on? It was there we\nceased to have the troubles that go to making tales, and\nentered upon the ordered life of good industry and clean\nliving. But, Katje, of all that came afterwards, money and\nsuccess, and even children, there was nothing to knit us as\ndid the sorry months by the spruit, when my Kornel proved\nhimself the man I knew him to be. Be happy, Katje; be happy\nat any rate.\"\n\nI think she has been happy.\n\nTHE END","title":"Vrouw Grobelaar and Her Leading Cases: Seventeen Short Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":53601}