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Swallow: A Tale of the Great Trek

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #4074 · 579,834 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Swallow: A Tale of the Great Trek

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #4074]
                Most recently updated: May 28, 2021

Language: English

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Swallow

A TALE OF THE GREAT TREK

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 CHAPTER I. WHY VROUW BOTMAR TELLS HER TALE
 CHAPTER II. HOW SUZANNE FOUND RALPH KENZIE
 CHAPTER III. THE STORY OF THE SHIPWRECK
 CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW OF THE ENGLISHMEN
 CHAPTER V. A LOVE SCENE AND A QUARREL
 CHAPTER VI. THE COMING OF THE ENGLISHMEN
 CHAPTER VII. THE SIN OF VROUW BOTMAR
 CHAPTER VIII. THE WISDOM OF SUZANNE
 CHAPTER IX. HOW SUZANNE SAVED SIHAMBA
 CHAPTER X. THE OATH OF SIHAMBA
 CHAPTER XI. A FIGHT AND A SHOT
 CHAPTER XII. WHAT THE COW SHOWED ZINTI
 CHAPTER XIII. THE SCHIMMEL’S FIRST RACE
 CHAPTER XIV. THE WEDDING
 CHAPTER XV. RALPH RETURNS INTO THE SEA
 CHAPTER XVI. HOW RALPH CAME BACK TO THE STEAD
 CHAPTER XVII. THE HIDDEN KRANTZ
 CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT PASSED IN THE HUT
 CHAPTER XIX. HOW THE SCHIMMEL CROSSED THE RED WATER
 CHAPTER XX. THE OMEN OF THE WHITE SWALLOW
 CHAPTER XXI. THE VISION OF RALPH AND SUZANNE
 CHAPTER XXII. THE WAR OF THE CLEAN SPEAR
 CHAPTER XXIII. HOW SUZANNE BECAME A CHIEFTAINESS
 CHAPTER XXIV. THE MADNESS OF RALPH KENZIE
 CHAPTER XXV. THE GREAT TREK
 CHAPTER XXVI. HOW GAASHA BROUGHT GOOD LUCK
 CHAPTER XXVII. SWART PIET SETS A SNARE
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE COMING OF THE IMPI
 CHAPTER XXIX. THIRST
 CHAPTER XXX. SIHAMBA PREVAILS
 CHAPTER XXXI. SIHAMBA’S FAREWELL
 CHAPTER XXXII. THE PASS OF THE QUATHLAMBA
 CHAPTER XXXIII. RALPH FINDS THE DREAM MOUNTAIN
 CHAPTER XXXIV. THE AVENGER OF BLOOD
 CHAPTER XXXV. THE SCHIMMEL’S LAST RACE




Ditchingham, 20th May, 1898.

My dear Clarke,

Over twenty years have passed since we found some unique opportunities
of observing Boer and Kaffir character in company; therefore it is not
perhaps out of place that I should ask you to allow me to put your name
upon a book which deals more or less with the peculiarities of those
races—a tale of the great Trek of 1836.

You, as I know, entertain both for Dutchman and Bantu that regard
tempered by a sense of respectful superiority which we are apt to feel
for those who on sundry occasions have but just failed in bringing our
earthly career to an end. The latter of these admirations I share to
the full; and in the case of the first of them, as I hope that the dour
but not unkindly character of Vrouw Botmar will prove to you, time
softens a man’s judgment. Nor have I ever questioned, as the worthy
Vrouw tells us, that in the beginning of the trouble the Boers met with
much of which to complain at the hands of English Governments. Their
maltreatment was not intentional indeed, but rather a result of
systematic neglect—to use a mild word—of colonies and their
inhabitants, which has culminated within our own experience, only,
thanks to a merciful change in public opinion, to pass away for ever.
Sympathy with the Voortrekkers of 1836 is easy; whether it remains so
in the case of their descendants, the present masters of the Transvaal,
is a matter that admits of many opinions. At the least, allowance
should always be made for the susceptibilities of a race that finds its
individuality and national life sinking slowly, but without hope of
resurrection, beneath an invading flood of Anglo-Saxons.

But these are issues of to-day with which this story has little to do.

Without further explanation, then, I hope that you will accept these
pages in memory of past time and friendship, and more especially of the
providential events connected with a night-long ride which once we took
on duty together among the “schanzes” and across the moon-lit paths of
Secocoeni’s mountain.

Believe me, my dear Clarke,
Your sincere friend,
H. Rider Haggard.


To Lieut.-Colonel Sir Marshal Clarke, R.A., K.C.M.G.




SWALLOW




CHAPTER I.
WHY VROUW BOTMAR TELLS HER TALE


It is a strange thing that I, an old Boer _vrouw_, should even think of
beginning to write a book when there are such numbers already in the
world, most of them worthless, and many of the rest a scandal and
offence in the face of the Lord. Notably is this so in the case of
those called novels, which are stiff as mealie-pap with lies that fill
the heads of silly girls with vain imaginings, causing them to neglect
their household duties and to look out of the corners of their eyes at
young men of whom their elders do not approve. In truth, my mother and
those whom I knew in my youth, fifty years ago, when women were good
and worthy and never had a thought beyond their husbands and their
children, would laugh aloud could any whisper in their dead ears that
Suzanne Naudé was about to write a book. Well might they laugh indeed,
seeing that to this hour the most that I can do with pen and ink is to
sign my own name very large; in this matter alone, not being the equal
of my husband Jan, who, before he became paralysed, had so much
learning that he could read aloud from the Bible, leaving out the names
and long words.

No, no, _I_ am not going to write; it is my great-granddaughter, who is
named Suzanne after me, who writes. And who that had not seen her at
the work could even guess how she does it? I tell you that she has
brought up from Durban a machine about the size of a pumpkin which goes
tap-tap—like a woodpecker, and prints as it taps. Now, my husband Jan
was always very fond of music in his youth, and when first the girl
began to tap upon this strange instrument, he, being almost blind and
not able to see it, thought that she was playing on a spinet such as
stood in my grandfather’s house away in the Old Colony. The noise
pleases him and sends him to sleep, reminding him of the days when he
courted me and I used to strum upon that spinet with one finger.
Therefore I am dictating this history that he may have plenty of it,
and that Suzanne may be kept out of mischief.

There, that is my joke. Still there is truth in it, for Jan Botmar, my
husband, he who was the strongest man among the fathers of the great
trek of 1836, when, like the Israelites of old, we escaped from the
English, our masters, into the wilderness, crouches in the corner
yonder a crippled giant with but one sense left to him, his hearing,
and a little power of wandering speech. It is strange to look at him,
his white hair hanging upon his shoulders, his eyes glazed, his chin
sunk upon his breast, his great hands knotted and helpless, and to
remember that at the battle of Vechtkop, when Moselikatse sent his
regiments to crush us, I saw those same hands of his seize the only two
Zulus who broke a way into our laager and shake and dash them together
till they were dead.

Well, well, who am I that I should talk? For has not the dropsy got
hold of my legs, and did not that doctor, who, though an Englishman, is
no fool, tell me but yesterday that it was creeping up towards my
heart? We are old and soon must die, for such is the will of God. Let
us then thank God that it is our lot to pass thus easily and in age,
and not to have perished in our youth, as did so many of our
companions, the Voortrekkers, they and their children together, by the
spear of the savage, or by starvation and fever and wild beasts in the
wilderness. Ah! I think of them often, and in my sleep, which has grown
light of late, I see them often, and hear those voices that none but I
would know to-day. I think of them and I see them, and since Suzanne
has the skill to set down my words, a desire comes upon me to tell of
them and their deeds before God takes me by the hand and I am borne
through the darkness by the wings of God.

Also there is another reason. The girl, Suzanne Kenzie, my
great-granddaughter, who writes this, alone is left of my blood, since
her father and grandfather, who was our adopted son, and the husband of
our only child, fell in the Zulu war fighting with the English against
Cetywayo. Now many have heard the strange story of Ralph Kenzie, the
English castaway, and of how he was found by our daughter Suzanne. Many
have heard also the still stranger story of how this child of ours,
Suzanne, in her need, was sheltered by savages, and for more than two
years lived with Sihamba, the little witch doctoress and ruler of the
Tribe of the Mountains, till Ralph, her husband, who loved her, sought
her out and rescued her, that by the mercy of the Lord during all this
time had suffered neither harm nor violence. Yes, many have heard of
these things, for in bygone years there was much talk of them as of
events out of nature and marvellous, but few have heard them right.
Therefore before I go, I, who remember and know them all, would set
them down that they may be a record for ever among my descendants and
the descendants of Ralph Kenzie, my foster-son, who, having been
brought up amongst us Boers, was the best and bravest Englishman that
ever lived in Africa.

And now I will tell of the finding of Ralph Kenzie many years ago.

To begin at the beginning, my husband, Jan Botmar, is one of the
well-known Boer family of that name, the most of whom lived in the
Graafreinet district in the Old Colony till some of them trekked into
the Transkei, when I was still a young girl, to be as far as they could
from the heart of the British power. Nor did they trek for a little
reason. Listen and judge.

One of the Bezuidenhouts, Frederick, was accused of treating some black
slave of his cruelly, and a body of the accursed _Pandours_, the
Hottentots whom the English had made into a regiment, were sent to
arrest him. He would not suffer that these black creatures should lay
hands upon a Boer, so he fled to a cave and fought there till he was
shot dead. Over his open grave his brethren and friends swore to take
vengeance for his murder, and fifty of them raised an insurrection.
They were pursued by the _Pandours_ and by burghers more law abiding or
more cautious, till Jan Bezuidenhout, the brother of Frederick, was
shot also, fighting to the last while his wife and little son loaded
the rifles. Then the rest were captured and put upon their trial, and
to the rage and horror of all their countrymen the brutal British
governor of that day, who was named Somerset, ordered five of them to
be hanged, among them my husband’s father and uncle. Petitions for
mercy availed nothing, and these five were tied to a beam like Kaffir
dogs yonder at Slagter’s Nek, they who had shed the blood of no man.
Yes, yes, it is true, for Jan, my man, saw it; he saw his father and
his uncle hanged like dogs. When they pushed them from the beam four of
the ropes broke—perhaps they had been tampered with, I know not—but
still the devils who murdered them would show no mercy. Jan ran to his
father and cast his arms about him, but they tore him away.

“Do not forget, my son,” he gasped as he lay there on the ground with
the broken rope about his neck, nor did Jan ever forget.

It was after this that the Botmars trekked into the Transkei, and with
them some other families, amongst whom were the Naudés, my parents.
Here in the Transkei the widow Botmar and my father were near
neighbours, their steads being at a distance from each other of about
three hours upon horseback, or something over twenty miles. In those
days, I may say it without shame now, I was the prettiest girl in the
Transkei, a great deal prettier than my granddaughter Suzanne there,
although some think well of her looks, but not so well as she thinks of
them herself, for that would be impossible. I have been told that I
have noble French blood in my veins, though I care little for this,
being quite content to be one of the Boers, who are all of noble blood.
At least I believe that my great-grandfather was a French Huguenot
Count who fled from his country to escape massacre because of his
religion. From him and his wife Suzanne, so it is said, we women of the
Naudés get our beauty, for we have always been beautiful; but the
loveliest of the race by far was my daughter Suzanne who married the
Englishman, Ralph Kenzie, from which time our good looks have begun to
fall off, though it is true that he was no ill-favoured man.

Whatever the cause, in my youth, I was not like the other Boer girls,
who for the most part are stout, heavy, and slow of speech, even before
they are married, nor did I need to wear a _kapje_ to keep a pink and
white face from burning in the sun. I was not tall, but my figure was
rounded and my movements were as quick as my tongue. Also I had brown
hair that curled and brown eyes beneath it, and full red lips, which
all the young men of that district—and there were six of them who can
be counted—would have given their best horse to kiss, with the saddle
and bridle thrown in. But remember this, Suzanne, I never suffered them
to do so, for in my time girls knew better what was right.

Well, among all these suitors I favoured Jan Botmar, the old cripple
who sits yonder, though in those days he was no cripple but the
properest man a girl could wish to see. My father was against such a
match, for he had the old French pride of race in him, and thought
little of the Botmar family, as though we were not all the children of
one God—except the black Kaffirs, who are the children of the devil.
But in the end he gave way, for Jan was well-to-do; so after we had
“opsitted” together several times according to our customs, and burnt
many very long candles,[*] we were married and went to live on a farm
of our own at a distance. For my part I have never regretted it,
although doubtless I might have done much better for myself; and if Jan
did, he has been wise enough not to say so to me. In this country most
of us women must choose a man to look after—it is a burden that Heaven
lays upon us—so one may as well choose him one fancies, and Jan was my
fancy, though why he should have been I am sure I do not know. Well, if
he had any wits left he would speak up and tell what a blessing I have
been to him, and how often my good sense has supplied the lack of his,
and how I forgave him, yes, and helped him out of the scrape when he
made a fool of himself with—but I will not write of that, for it makes
me angry, and as likely as not I should throw something at him before I
had finished, which he would not understand.

[*] It is customary among the Boers for the suitor to sit up alone at
night with the object of his choice. Should the lady favour him, she
lights long candles, but if he does not please her she produces “ends,”
signifying thereby that she prefers his room to his company.—Author.


No, no; I do not regret it, and, what is more, when my man dies I shall
not be long behind him. Ah! they may talk, all these wise young people;
but, after all, what is there better for a woman than to love some man,
the good and the bad of him together, to bear his children and to share
his sorrows, and to try to make him a little better and a little less
selfish and unfortunate than he would have been alone? Poor men!
Without us women their lot would be hard indeed, and how they will get
on in heaven, where they are not allowed to marry, is more than I can
guess.

So we married, and within a year our daughter was born and christened
by the family name of Suzanne after me, though almost from her cradle
the Kaffirs called her “Swallow,” I am not sure why. She was a very
beautiful child from the first, and she was the only one, for I was ill
at her birth and never had any more children. The other women with
their coveys of eight and ten and twelve used to condole with me about
this, and get a sharp answer for their pains. I had one which always
shut their mouths, but I won’t ask the girl here to set it down. An
only daughter was enough for me, I said, and if it wasn’t I shouldn’t
have told them so, for the truth is that it is best to take these
things as we find them, and whether it be one or ten, to declare that
that is just as we would wish it. I know that when we were on the great
trek and I saw the _kinderchies_ of others dying of starvation, or
massacred in dozens by the Kaffir devils, ah! then I was glad that we
had no more children. Heartaches enough my ewe lamb Suzanne gave me
during those bitter years when she was lost. And when she died, having
lived out her life just before her husband, Ralph Kenzie, went on
commando with his son to the Zulu war, whither her death drove him, ah!
then it ached for the last time. When next my heart aches it shall be
with joy to find them both in Heaven.




CHAPTER II.
HOW SUZANNE FOUND RALPH KENZIE


Our farm where we lived in the Transkei was not very far from the
ocean; indeed, any one seated on the _kopje_ or little hill at the back
of the house, from the very top of which bubbles a spring of fresh
water, can see the great rollers striking the straight cliffs of the
shore and spouting into the air in clouds of white foam. Even in warm
weather they spout thus, but when the south-easterly gales blow then
the sight and the sound of them are terrible as they rush in from the
black water one after another for days and nights together. Then the
cliffs shiver beneath their blows, and the spray flies up as though it
were driven from the nostrils of a thousand whales, and is swept inland
in clouds, turning the grass and the leaves of the trees black in its
breath. Woe to the ship that is caught in those breakers and ground
against those rocks, for soon nothing is left of it save scattered
timbers shivered as though by lightning.

One winter—it was when Suzanne was seven years old—such a south-east
gale as this blew for four days, and on a certain evening after the
wind had fallen, having finished my household work, I went to the top
of the _kopje_ to rest and look at the sea, which was still raging
terrible, taking with me Suzanne. I had been sitting there ten minutes
or more when Jan, my husband, joined me, and I wondered why he had
come, for he, as brave a man as ever lived in all other things, was
greatly afraid of the sea, and, indeed, of any water. So afraid was he
that he did not like the sight of it in its anger, and would wake at
nights at the sound of a storm—yes, he whom I have seen sleep through
the trumpetings of frightened elephants and the shouting of a Zulu
impi.

“You think that sight fine, wife,” he said, pointing to the spouting
foam; “but I call it the ugliest in the world. Almighty! it turns my
blood cold to look at it and to think that Christian men, ay, and women
and children too, may be pounding to pulp in those breakers.”

“Without doubt the death is as good as another,” I answered; “not that
I would choose it, for I wish to die in my bed with the _predicant_
saying prayers over me, and my husband weeping—or pretending to—at the
foot of it.”

“Choose it!” he said. “I had sooner be speared by savages or hanged by
the English Government as my father was.”

“What makes you think of death in the sea, Jan?” I asked.

“Nothing, wife, nothing; but there is that fool of a Pondo
witch-doctoress down by the cattle kraal, and I heard her telling a
story as I went by to look at the ox that the snake bit yesterday.”

“What was the story?”

“Oh! a short one; she said she had it from the coast Kaffirs—that far
away, up towards the mouth of the Umzimbubu, when the moon was young,
great guns had been heard fired one after the other, minute by minute,
and that then a ship was seen, a tall ship with three masts and many
‘eyes’ in it—I suppose she meant portholes with the light shining
through them—drifting on to the coast before the wind, for a storm was
raging, while streaks of fire like red and blue lightnings rushed up
from her decks.”

“Well, and then?”

“And then, nothing. Almighty! that is all the tale. Those waves which
you love to watch can tell the rest.”

“Most like it is some Kaffir lie, husband.”

“May be, but amongst these people news travels faster than a good
horse, and before now there have been wrecks upon this coast. Child,
put down that gun. Do you want to shoot your mother? Have I not told
you that you must never touch a gun?” and he pointed to Suzanne, who
had picked up her father’s _roer_—for in those days, when we lived
among so many Kaffirs, every man went armed—and was playing at soldiers
with it.

“I was shooting buck and Kaffirs, papa,” she said, obeying him with a
pout.

“Shooting Kaffirs, were you? Well, there will be a good deal of that to
do before all is finished in this land, little one. But it is not work
for girls; you should have been a boy, Suzanne.”

“I can’t; I am a girl,” she answered; “and I haven’t any brothers like
other girls. Why haven’t I any brothers?”

Jan shrugged his shoulders, and looked at me.

“Won’t the sea bring me a brother?” went on the child, for she had been
told that little children came out of the sea.

“Perhaps, if you look for one very hard,” I answered with a sigh,
little knowing what fruit would spring from this seed of a child’s
talk.

On the morrow there was a great to do about the place, for the black
girl whose business it was to look after Suzanne came in at breakfast
time and said that she had lost the child. It seemed that they had gone
down to the shore in the early morning to gather big shells such as are
washed up there after a heavy storm, and that Suzanne had taken with
her a bag made of spring-buck hide in which to carry them. Well, the
black girl sat down under the shadow of a rock, leaving Suzanne to
wander to and fro looking for the shells, and not for an hour or more
did she get up to find her. Then she searched in vain, for the spoor of
the child’s feet led from the sand between the rocks to the pebbly
shore above, which was covered with tough sea grasses, and there was
lost. Now at the girl’s story I was frightened, and Jan was both
frightened and so angry that he would have tied her up and flogged her
if he had found time. But of this there was none to lose, so taking
with him such Kaffirs as he could find he set off for the seashore to
hunt for Suzanne. It was near sunset when he returned, and I, who was
watching from the _stoep_, saw with a shiver of fear that he was alone.

“Wife,” he said in a hollow voice, “the child is lost. We have searched
far and wide and can find no trace of her. Make food ready to put in my
saddle-bags, for should we discover her to-night or to-morrow, she will
be starving.”

“Be comforted,” I said, “at least she will not starve, for the cook
girl tells me that before Suzanne set out this morning she begged of
her a bottle of milk and with it some biltong and meal cakes and put
them in her bag.”

“It is strange,” he answered. “What could the little maid want with
these unless she was minded to make a journey?”

“At times it comes into the thoughts of children to play truant,
husband.”

“Yes, yes, that is so, but pray God that we may find her before the
moon sets.”

Then while I filled the saddle-bags Jan swallowed some meat, and a
fresh horse having been brought he kissed me and rode away in the
twilight.

Oh! what hours were those that followed! All night long I sat there on
the _stoep_, though the wind chilled me and the dew wet my clothes,
watching and praying as, I think, I never prayed before. This I knew
well—that our Suzanne, our only child, the light and joy of our home,
was in danger so great that the Lord alone could save her. The country
where we lived was lonely, savages still roamed about it who hated the
white man, and might steal or kill her; also it was full of leopards,
hyenas, and other beasts of prey which would devour her. Worst of all,
the tides on the coast were swift and treacherous, and it well might
happen that if she was wandering among the great rocks the sea would
come in and drown her. Indeed, again and again it seemed to me that I
could hear her death-cry in the sob of the wind.

At length the dawn broke, and with it came Jan. One glance at his face
was enough for me. “She is not dead?” I gasped.

“I know not,” he answered, “we have found nothing of her. Give me
brandy and another horse, for the sun rises, and I return to the
search. The tide is down, perhaps we shall discover her among the
rocks,” and he groaned and entered the house with me.

“Kneel down and let us pray, husband,” I said, and we knelt down
weeping and praying aloud to our God who, seated in the Heavens, yet
sees and knows the needs and griefs of His servants upon the earth;
prayed that He would pity our agony and give us back our only child.
Nor, blessed be his name, did we pray vainly, for presently, while we
still knelt, we heard the voice of that girl who had lost Suzanne, and
who all night long had lain sobbing in the garden grounds, calling to
us in wild accents to come forth and see. Then we rushed out, hope
burning up suddenly in our hearts like a fire in dry grass.

In front of the house and not more than thirty paces from it, was the
crest of a little wave of land upon which at this moment the rays of
the rising sun struck brightly. There, yes, there, full in the glow of
them, stood the child Suzanne, wet, disarrayed, her hair hanging about
her face, but unharmed and smiling, and leaning on her shoulder another
child, a white boy, somewhat taller and older than herself. With a cry
of joy we rushed towards her, and reaching her the first, for my feet
were the swiftest, I snatched her to my breast and kissed her, whereon
the boy fell down, for it seemed that his foot was hurt and he could
not stand alone.

“In the name of Heaven, what is the meaning of this?” gasped Jan.

“What should it mean,” answered the little maid proudly, “save that I
went to look for the brother whom you said I might find by the sea if I
searched hard enough, and I found him, though I do not understand his
words or he mine. Come, brother, let me help you up, for this is our
home, and here are our father and mother.”

Then, filled with wonder, we carried the children into the house, and
took their wet clothes off them. It was I who undressed the boy, and
noted that though his garments were in rags and foul, yet they were of
a finer stuff than any that I had seen, and that his linen, which was
soft as silk, was marked with the letters R. M. Also I noted other
things: namely, that so swollen were his little feet that the boots
must be cut off them, and that he was well-nigh dead of starvation, for
his bones almost pierced his milk-white skin.

Well, we cleaned him, and having wrapped him in blankets and
soft-tanned hides, I fed him with broth a spoonful at a time, for had I
let him eat all he would, he was so famished that I feared lest he
should kill himself. After he was somewhat satisfied, sad memories
seemed to come back to him, for he cried and spoke in English,
repeating the word “Mother,” which I knew, again and again, till
presently he dropped off to sleep, and for many hours slept without
waking. Then, little by little, I drew all the tale from Suzanne.

It would seem that the child, who was very venturesome and full of
imaginings, had dreamed a dream in her bed on the night of the day when
she played with the gun and Jan and I had spoken together of the sea.
She dreamed that in a certain kloof, an hour’s ride and more away from
the stead, she heard the voice of a child praying, and that although he
prayed in a tongue unknown to her, she understood the words, which
were: “O Father, my mother is dead, send some one to help me, for I am
starving.” Moreover, looking round her in her dream, though she could
not see the child from whom the voice came, yet she knew the kloof, for
as it chanced she had been there twice, once with me to gather white
lilies for the burial of a neighbour who had died, and once with her
father, who was searching for a lost ox. Now Suzanne, having lived so
much with her elders, was very quick, and she was sure when she woke in
the morning that if she said anything about her dream we should laugh
at her and should not allow her to go to the place of which she had
dreamt. Therefore it was that she made the plan of seeking for the
shells upon the seashore, and of slipping away from the woman who was
with her, and therefore also she begged the milk and the biltong.

Now before I go further I would ask, What was this dream of Suzanne’s?
Did she invent it after the things to which it pointed had come to
pass, or was it verily a vision sent by God to the pure heart of a
little child, as aforetime He sent a vision to the heart of the infant
Samuel? Let each solve the riddle as he will, only, if it were nothing
but an imagination, why did she take the milk and food? Because we had
been talking on that evening of her finding a brother by the sea, you
may answer. Well, perhaps so; let each solve the riddle as he will.

When Suzanne escaped from her nurse she struck inland, and thus it
happened that her feet left no spoor upon the hard, dry veldt. Soon she
found that the kloof she sought was further off than she thought for,
or, perhaps, she lost her way to it, for the hillsides are scarred with
such kloofs, and it might well chance that a child would mistake one
for the other. Still she went on, though she grew frightened in the
lonely wilderness, where great bucks sprang up at her feet and baboons
barked at her as they clambered from rock to rock. On she went,
stopping only once or twice to drink a little of the milk and eat some
food, till, towards sunset, she found the kloof of which she had
dreamed. For a while she wandered about in it, following the banks of a
stream, till at length, as she passed a dense clump of mimosa bushes,
she heard the faint sound of a child’s voice—the very voice of her
dream. Now she stopped, and turning to the right, pushed her way
through the mimosas, and there beyond them was a dell, and in the
centre of the dell a large flat rock, and on the rock a boy praying,
the rays of the setting sun shining in his golden, tangled hair. She
went to the child and spoke to him, but he could not understand our
tongue, nor could she understand his. Then she drew out what was left
of the bottle of milk and some meal cakes and gave them to him, and he
ate and drank greedily.

By this time the sun was down, and as they did not dare to move in the
dark, the children sat together on the rock, clasped in each other’s
arms for warmth, and as they sat they saw yellow eyes staring at them
through the gloom, and heard strange snoring sounds, and were afraid.
At length the moon rose, and in its first rays they perceived standing
and walking within a few paces of them three tigers, as we call
leopards, two of them big and one half-grown. But the tigers did them
no harm, for God forbade them; they only looked at them a little and
then slipped away, purring as they went.

Now Suzanne rose, and taking the boy by the hand she began to lead him
homeward, very slowly, since he was footsore and exhausted, and for the
last half of the way could only walk resting upon her shoulder. Still
through the long night they crawled forward, for the _kopje_ at the
back of our stead was a guide to Suzanne, stopping from time to time to
rest a while, till at the breaking of the dawn with their last strength
they came to the house, as has been told.

Well it was that they did so, for it seems that the searchers had
already sought them in the very kloof where they were hidden, without
seeing anything of them behind the thick screen of the mimosas, and
having once sought doubtless they would have returned there no more,
for the hills are wide and the kloofs in them many.




CHAPTER III.
THE STORY OF THE SHIPWRECK


“What shall we do with this boy whom Suzanne has brought to us, wife?”
asked Jan of me that day while both the children lay asleep.

“Do with him, husband!” I answered; “we shall keep him; he is the
Lord’s gift.”

“He is English, and I hate the English,” said Jan, looking down.

“English or Dutch, husband, he is of noble blood, and the Lord’s gift,
and to turn him away would be to turn away our luck.”

“But how if his people come to seek him?”

“When they come we will talk of it, but I do not think that they will
come; I think that the sea has swallowed them all.”

After that Jan said no more of this matter for many years; indeed I
believe that from the first he desired to keep the child, he who was
sonless.

Now while the boy lay asleep Jan mounted his horse and rode for two
hours to the stead of our neighbour, the Heer van Vooren. This Van
Vooren was a very rich man, by far the richest of us outlying Boers,
and he had come to live in these wilds because of some bad act that he
had done; I think that it was the shooting of a coloured person when he
was angry. He was a strange man and much feared, sullen in countenance,
and silent by nature. It was said that his grandmother was a
chieftainess among the red Kaffirs, but if so, the blood showed more in
his son and only child than in himself. Of this son, who in after years
was named Swart Piet, and his evil doings I shall have to tell later in
my story, but even then his dark face and savage temper had earned for
him the name of “the little Kaffir.”

Now the wife of the Heer van Vooren was dead, and he had a tutor for
his boy Piet, a poor Hollander body who could speak English. That man
knew figures also, for once when, thinking that I should be too clever
for him, I asked him how often the wheel of our big waggon would turn
round travelling between our farm and Capetown Castle, he took a rule
and measured the wheel, then having set down some figures on a bit of
paper, and worked at them for a while, he told me the answer. Whether
it was right or wrong I did not know, and said so, whereon the poor
creature grew angry, and lied in his anger, for he swore that he could
tell how often the wheel would turn in travelling from the earth to the
sun or moon, and also how far we were from those great lamps, a thing
that is known to God only, Who made them for our comfort. It is little
wonder, therefore, that with such unholy teaching Swart Piet grew up so
bad.

Well, Jan went to beg the loan of this tutor, thinking that he would be
able to understand what the English boy said, and in due course the
creature came in a pair of blue spectacles and riding on a mule, for he
dared not trust himself to a horse. Afterwards, when the child woke up
from his long sleep, and had been fed and dressed, the tutor spoke with
him in that ugly English tongue of which I could never even bear the
sound, and this was the story that he drew from him.

It seems that the boy, who gave his name as Ralph Kenzie, though I
believe that really it was Ralph Mackenzie, was travelling with his
father and mother and many others from a country called India, which is
one of those places that the English have stolen in different parts of
the world, as they stole the Cape and Natal and all the rest. They
travelled for a long while in a big ship, for India is a long way off,
till, when they were near this coast, a storm sprang up, and after the
wind had blown for two days they were driven on rocks a hundred miles
or more away from our stead. So fierce was the sea and so quickly did
the ship break to pieces that only one boat was got out, which, except
for a crew of six men, was filled with women and children. In this boat
the boy Ralph and his mother were given a place, but his father did not
come, although the captain begged him, for he was a man of some
importance, whose life was of more value than those of common people.
But he refused, for he said that he would stop and share the fate of
the other men, which shows that this English lord, for I think he was a
lord, had a high spirit. So he kissed his wife and child and blessed
them, and the boat was lowered to the sea, but before another could be
got ready the great ship slipped back from the rock upon which she hung
and sank (for this we heard afterwards from some Kaffirs who saw it),
and all aboard of her were drowned. May God have mercy upon them!

When it was near to the shore the boat was overturned, and some of
those in it were drowned, but Ralph and his mother were cast safely on
the beach, and with them others. Then one of the men looked at a
compass and they began to walk southwards, hoping doubtless to reach
country where white people lived. All that befell afterwards I cannot
tell, for the poor child was too frightened and bewildered to remember,
but it seems that the men were killed in a fight with natives, who,
however, did not touch the women and children. After that the women and
the little ones died one by one of hunger and weariness, or were taken
by wild beasts, till at last none were left save Ralph and his mother.
When they were alone they met a Kaffir woman, who gave them as much
food as they could carry, and by the help of this food they struggled
on southward for another five or six days, till at length one morning,
after their food was gone, Ralph woke to find his mother cold and dead
beside him.

When he was sure that she was dead he was much frightened, and ran away
as fast as he could. All that day he staggered forward, till in the
evening he came to the kloof, and being quite exhausted, knelt upon the
flat stone to pray, as he had been taught to do, and there Suzanne
found him. Such was the story, and so piteous it seemed to us that we
wept as we listened, yes, even Jan wept, and the tutor snivelled and
wiped his weak eyes.

That it was true in the main we learned afterwards from the Kaffirs, a
bit here and a bit there. Indeed, one of our own people, while
searching for Suzanne, found the body of Ralph’s mother and buried it.
He said that she was a tall and noble-looking lady, not much more than
thirty years of age. We did not dig her up again to look at her, as
perhaps we should have done, for the Kaffir declared that she had
nothing on her except some rags and two rings, a plain gold one and
another of emeralds, with a device carved upon it, and in the pocket of
her gown a little book bound in red, that proved to be a Testament, on
the fly leaf of which was written in English, “Flora Gordon, the gift
of her mother, Agnes Janey Gordon, on her confirmation,” and with it a
date.

All these things the Kaffir brought home faithfully, also a lock of the
lady’s fair hair, which he had cut off with his assegai. That lock of
hair labelled in writing—remember it, Suzanne, when I am gone—is in the
waggon box which stands beneath my bed. The other articles Suzanne here
has, as is her right, for her grandfather settled them on her by will,
and with them one thing which I forgot to mention. When we undressed
the boy Ralph, we found hanging by a gold chain to his neck, where he
said his mother placed it the night before she died, a large locket,
also of gold. This locket contained three little pictures painted on
ivory, one in each half of it and one with the plain gold back on a
hinge between them. That to the right was of a handsome man in uniform,
who, Ralph told me, was his father (and indeed he left all this in
writing, together with his will); that to the left, of a lovely lady in
a low dress, who, he said, was his mother; that in the middle a
portrait of the boy himself, as anyone could see, which must have been
painted not more than a year before we found him. This locket and the
pictures my great-granddaughter Suzanne has also.

Now, as I have said, we let that unhappy lady lie in her rude grave
yonder by the sea, but my husband took men and built a cairn of stones
over it and a strong wall about it, and there it stands to this day,
for not long ago I met one of the folk from the Old Colony who had seen
it, and who told me that the people that live in those parts now
reverence the spot, knowing its story. Also, when some months
afterwards a minister came to visit us, we led him to the place and he
read the Burial Service over the lady’s bones, so that she did not lack
for Christian Burial.

Well, this wreck made a great stir, for many were drowned in it, and
the English Government sent a ship of war to visit the place where it
happened, but none came to ask us what we knew of the matter; indeed,
we never learned that the frigate had been till she was gone again. So
it came about that the story died away, as such stories do in this sad
world, and for many years we heard no more of it.

For a while the boy Ralph was like a haunted child. At night, and now
and again even in the daytime, he would be seized with terror, and sob
and cry in a way that was piteous to behold, though not to be wondered
at by any who knew his history. When these fits took him, strange as it
may seem, there was but one who could calm his heart, and that one
Suzanne. I can see them now as I have seen them thrice that I remember,
the boy sitting up in his bed, a stare of agony in his eyes, and the
sweat running down his face, damping his yellow hair, and talking
rapidly, half in English, half in Dutch, with a voice that at times
would rise to a scream, and at times would sink to a whisper, of the
shipwreck, of his lost parents, of the black Indian woman who nursed
him, of the wilderness, the tigers, and the Kaffirs who fell on them,
and many other things. By him sits Suzanne, a soft kaross of jackal
skins wrapped over her nightgown, the dew of sleep still showing upon
her childish face and in her large dark eyes. By him she sits, talking
in some words which for us have little meaning, and in a voice now
shrill, and now sinking to a croon, while with one hand she clasps his
wrist, and with the other strokes his brow, till the shadow passes from
his soul and, clinging close to her, he sinks back to sleep.

But as the years went by these fits grew rarer till at last they ceased
altogether, since, thanks be to God, childhood can forget its grief.
What did not cease, however, was the lad’s love for Suzanne, or her
love for him, which, if possible, was yet deeper. Brother may love
sister, but that affection, however true, yet lacks something, since
nature teaches that it can never be complete. But from the
beginning—yes, even while they were children—these twain were brother
and sister, friend and friend, lover and lover; and so they remained
till life left them, and so they will remain for aye in whatever life
they live. Their thought was one thought, their heart was one heart; in
them was neither variableness nor shadow of turning; they were each of
each, to each and for each, as one soul in their separate spirits, as
one flesh in their separate bodies. I who write this am a very old
woman, and though in many things I am most ignorant, I have seen much
of the world and of the men who live in it, yet I say that never have I
known any marvel to compare with the marvel and the beauty of the love
between Ralph Kenzie, the castaway, and my sweet daughter, Suzanne. It
was of heaven, not of earth; or, rather, like everything that is
perfect, it partook both of earth and heaven. Yes, yes, it wandered up
the mountain paths of earth to the pure heights of heaven, where now it
dwells for ever.

The boy Ralph grew up fair and brave and strong, with keen grey eyes
and a steady mouth, nor did I know any lad of his years who could equal
him in strength and swiftness of foot; for, though in youth he was not
over tall, he was broad in the breast and had muscles that never seemed
to tire. Now, we Boers think little of book learning, holding, as we
do, that if a man can read the Holy Word it is enough. Still Jan and I
thought as Ralph was not of our blood, though otherwise in all ways a
son to us, that it was our duty to educate him as much in the fashion
of his own people as our circumstances would allow. Therefore, after he
had been with us some two years, when one day the Hollander tutor man,
with the blue spectacles, of whom I have spoken, rode up to our house
upon his mule, telling us that he had fled from the Van Voorens because
he could no longer bear witness to the things that were practised at
their stead, we engaged him to teach Ralph and Suzanne. He remained
with us six years, by which time both the children had got much
learning from him; though how much it is not for me, who have none, to
judge. They learnt history and reading and writing, and something of
the English tongue, but I need scarcely say that I would not suffer him
to teach them to pry into the mystery of God’s stars, as he wished to
do, for I hold that such lore is impious and akin to witchcraft of
which I have seen enough from Sihamba and others.

I asked this Hollander more particularly why he had fled from the Van
Voorens, but he would tell me little more than that it was because of
the wizardries practised there. If I might believe him, the Heer Van
Vooren made a custom of entertaining Kaffir witch doctors and
doctoresses at his house, and of celebrating with them secret and
devilish rites, to which his son, Swart Piet, was initiated in his
presence. That this last story was true I have no doubt indeed, seeing
that the events of after years prove it to have been so.

Well, at last the Hollander left us to marry a rich old vrouw twenty
years his senior, and that is all I have to say about him, except that
if possible I disliked him more when he walked out of the house than
when he walked in; though why I should have done so I do not know, for
he was a harmless body. Perhaps it was because he played the flute,
which I have always thought contemptible in a man.




CHAPTER IV.
THE SHADOW OF THE ENGLISHMEN


Now I will pass on to the time when Ralph was nineteen or thereabouts,
and save for the lack of hair upon his face, a man grown, since in our
climate young people ripen quickly in body if not in mind. I tell of
that year with shame and sorrow, for it was then that Jan and I
committed a great sin, for which afterwards we were punished heavily
enough.

At the beginning of winter Jan trekked to the nearest dorp, some fifty
miles away, with a waggon load of mealies and of buckskins which he and
Ralph had shot, purposing to sell them and to attend the Nachtmahl, or
Feast of the Lord’s Supper. I was somewhat ailing just then and did not
accompany him, nor did Suzanne, who stayed to nurse me, or Ralph, who
was left to look after us both.

Fourteen days later Jan returned, and from his face I saw at once that
something had gone wrong.

“What is it, husband?” I asked. “Did not the mealies sell well?”

“Yes, yes, they sold well,” he answered, “for that fool of an English
storekeeper bought them and the hides together for more than their
value.”

“Are the Kaffirs going to rise again, then?”

“No, they are quiet for the present, though the accursed missionaries
of the London Society are doing their best to stir them up,” and he
made a sign to me to cease from asking questions, nor did I say any
more till we had gone to bed and everybody else in the house was
asleep.

“Now,” I said, “tell me your bad news, for bad news you have had.”

“Wife,” he answered, “it is this. In the dorp yonder I met a man who
had come from Port Elizabeth. He told me that there at the port were
two Englishmen, who had recently arrived, a Scotch lord, and a lawyer
with red hair. When the Englishmen heard that he was from this part of
the country they fell into talk with him, saying that they came upon a
strange errand. It seems that when the great ship was wrecked upon this
coast ten years ago there was lost in her a certain little boy who, if
he had lived, would to-day have been a very rich noble in Scotland.
Wife, you may know who that little boy was without my telling you his
name.”

I nodded and turned cold all over my body, for I could guess what was
coming.

“Now for a long while those who were interested in him supposed that
this lad was certainly dead with all the others on board that ship, but
a year or more ago, how I know not, a rumour reached them that one male
child who answered to his description had been saved alive and adopted
by some boers living in the Transkei. By this time the property and the
title that should be his had descended to a cousin of the child’s, but
this relation being a just man determined before he took them to come
to Africa and find out the truth for himself, and there he is at Port
Elizabeth, or rather by this time he is on his road to our place.
Therefore it would seem that the day is at hand when we shall see the
last of Ralph.”

“Never!” I said, “he is a son to us and more than a son, and I will not
give him up.”

“Then they will take him, wife. Yes, even if he does not wish it, for
he is a minor and they are armed with authority.”

“Oh!” I cried, “it would break my heart, and, Jan, there is another
heart that would break also,” and I pointed towards the chamber where
Suzanne slept.

He nodded, for none could live with them and not know that this youth
and maiden loved each other dearly.

“It would break your heart,” he answered, “and her heart; yes, and my
own would be none the better for the wrench; yet how can we turn this
evil from our door?”

“Jan,” I said, “the winter is at hand; it is time that you and Ralph
should take the cattle to the bush-veldt yonder, where they will lie
warm and grow fat, for so large a herd cannot be trusted to the
Kaffirs. Had you not better start to-morrow? If these English meddlers
should come here I will talk with them. Did Suzanne save the boy for
them? Did we rear him for them, although he was English? Think how you
will feel when he has crossed the ridge yonder for the last time, you
who are sonless, and you must go about your tasks alone, must ride
alone and hunt alone, and, if need be, fight alone, except for his
memory. Think, Jan, think.”

“Do not tempt me, woman,” he whispered back in a hoarse voice, for
Ralph and he were more to each other than any father and son that I
have known, since they were also the dearest of friends. “Do not tempt
me,” he went on; “the lad must himself be told of this, and he must
judge; he is young, but among us at nineteen a youth is a burgher
grown, with a right to take up land and marry. He must be told, I say,
and at once.”

“It is good,” I said, “let him judge;” but in the wickedness of my
heart I made up my mind that I would find means to help his judgment,
for the thought of losing him filled me with blind terror, and all that
night I lay awake thinking out the matter.

Early in the morning I rose and went to the _stoep_, where I found
Suzanne drinking coffee and singing a little song that Ralph had taught
her. I can see her now as she stood in her pretty tight-fitting dress,
a flower wet with dew in her girdle, swinging her _kapje_ by its
strings while the first rays of the sun glistened on the waves of her
brown and silk-like hair. She was near eighteen then, and so beautiful
that my heart beat with pride at her loveliness, for never in my long
life have I seen a girl of any nation who could compare with my
daughter Suzanne in looks. Many women are sweet to behold in this way
or in that; but Suzanne was beautiful every way, yes, and at all ages
of her life; as a child, as a maiden, as a matron and as a woman
drawing near to eld, she was always beautiful if, like that of the
different seasons, her beauty varied. In shape she was straight and
tall and rounded, light-footed as a buck, delicate in limb,
wide-breasted and slender-necked. Her face was rich in hue as a kloof
lily, and her eyes—ah! no antelope ever had eyes darker, tenderer, or
more appealing than were the eyes of Suzanne. Moreover, she was sweet
of nature, ready of wit and good-hearted—yes, even for the Kaffirs she
had a smile.

“You are up betimes, Suzanne,” I said when I had looked at her a
little.

“Yes, mother; I rose to make Ralph his coffee, he does not like that
the Kaffir women should boil it for him.”

“You mean that you do not like it,” I answered, for I knew that Ralph
thought little of who made the coffee that he drank, or if he did it
was mine that he held to be the best, and not Suzanne’s, who in those
days was a careless girl, thinking less of household matters than she
should have done.

“Did Swart Piet come here yesterday?” I asked. “I thought that I saw
his horse as I walked back from the sea.”

“Yes, he came.”

“What for?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh! mother, why do you ask me? You know
well that he is always troubling me, bringing me presents of flowers,
and asking me to _opsit_ with him and what not.”

“Then you don’t want to _opsit_ with him?”

“The candle would be short that I should burn with Swart Piet,”
answered Suzanne, stamping her foot; “he is an evil man, full of dark
words and ways, and I fear him, for I think that since his father’s
death he has become worse, and the most of the company he keeps is with
those Kaffir witch-doctors.”

“Ah! like father, like son. The mantle of Elijah has fallen upon
Elisha, but inside out. Well, it is what I expected, for sin and
wizardry were born in his blood. Had you any words with him?”

“Yes, some. I would not listen to his sweet talk, so he grew angry and
began to threaten; but just then Ralph came back and he went away, for
he is afraid of Ralph.”

“Where has Ralph gone so early?” I asked, changing the subject.

“To the far cattle-kraal to look after the oxen which the Kaffir
bargained to break into the yoke. They are choosing them this morning.”

“So. He makes a good Boer for one of English blood, does he not? And
yet I suppose that when he becomes English again he will soon forget
that he was ever a Boer.”

“When he becomes English again, mother! What do you mean by that
saying?” she asked quickly.

“I mean that like will to like, and blood to blood; also that there may
be a nest far away which this bird that we have caged should fill.”

“A nest far away, mother? Then there is one here which would be left
empty; in your heart and father’s, I mean;” and dropping her sun-bonnet
she turned pale and pressed her hands upon her own, adding, “Oh! speak
straight words to me. What do you mean by these hints?”

“I mean, Suzanne, that it is not well for any of us to let our love
wrap itself too closely about a stranger. Ralph is an Englishman, not a
Boer. He names me mother and your father, father; and you he names
sister, but to us he is neither son nor brother. Well, a day may come
when he learns to understand this, when he learns to understand also
that he has other kindred, true kindred far away across the sea; and if
those birds call, who will keep him in the strange nest?”

“Ah!” she echoed, all dismayed, “who will keep him then?”

“I do not know,” I answered; “not a foster father or mother. But I
forgot. Say, did he take his rifle with him to the kraal?”

“Surely, I saw it in his hand.”

“Then, daughter, if you will, get on a horse, and if you can find
Ralph, tell him that I shall be very glad if he can shoot a small buck
and bring it back with him, as I need fresh meat.”

“May I stay with him while he shoots the buck, mother?”

“Yes, if you are not in his way and do not stop too long.”

Then, without more words, Suzanne left me, and presently I saw her
cantering across the veldt upon her grey mare that Ralph had broken for
her, and wondered if she would find him and what luck he would have
with the hunt that day.

Now it seems that Suzanne found Ralph and gave him my message, and that
they started together to look for buck on the strip of land which lies
between the seashore and the foot of the hills, where sometimes the
blesbok and springbok used to feed in thousands. But on this day there
were none to be seen, for the dry grass had already been burnt off, so
that there was nothing for them to eat.

“If mother is to get her meat to-day,” said Ralph at length, “I think
that we must try the hill side for a duiker or a bush-buck.”

So they turned inland and rode towards that very kloof where years
before Suzanne had discovered the shipwrecked boy. At the mouth of this
kloof was a patch of marshy ground, where the reeds still stood thick,
since being full of sap they had resisted the fire.

“That is a good place for a riet-buck,” said Ralph, “if only one could
beat him out of it, for the reeds are too tall to see to shoot in
them.”

“It can be managed,” answered Suzanne. “Do you go and stand in the neck
of the kloof while I ride through the reeds towards you.”

“You might get bogged,” he said doubtfully.

“No, no, brother; after all this drought the pan is nothing more than
spongy, and if I should get into a soft spot I will call out.”

To this plan Ralph at length agreed, and having ridden round the pan,
which was not more than fifty yards across, he dismounted from his
horse and hid himself behind a bush in the neck of the kloof. Then
Suzanne rode in among the reeds, shouting and singing, and beating them
with her sjambock in order to disturb anything that might be hidden
there. Nor was her trouble in vain, for suddenly, with a shrill whistle
of alarm by the sound of which this kind of antelope may be known even
in the dark, up sprang two riet-buck and dashed away towards the neck
of the kloof, looking large as donkeys and red as lions as they
vanished into the thick cover. So close were they to Suzanne that her
mare took fright and reared; but the girl was the best horsewoman in
those parts, and kept her seat, calling the while to Ralph to make
ready for the buck. Presently she heard a shot, and having quieted the
mare, rode out of the reeds and galloped round the dry pan to find
Ralph looking foolish with no riet-buck in sight.

“Have you missed them?” she asked.

“No, not so bad as that, for they passed within ten yards of me, but
the old gun hung fire. I suppose that the powder in the pan was a
little damp, and instead of hitting the buck in front I caught him
somewhere behind. He fell down, but has gone on again, so we must
follow him, for I don’t think that he will get very far.”

Accordingly, when Ralph had reloaded his gun, which took some time—for
in those days we had scarcely anything but flintlocks—yes, it was with
weapons like these that a handful of us beat the hosts of Dingaan and
Moselikatse—they started to follow the blood spoor up the kloof, which
was not difficult, as the animal had bled much. Near to the top of the
kloof the trail led them through a thick clump of mimosas, and there in
the dell beyond they found the riet-buck lying dead. Riding to it they
dismounted and examined it.

“Poor beast,” said Suzanne; “look how the tears have run down its face.
Well, I am glad that it is dead and done with,” and she sighed and
turned away, for Suzanne was a silly and tender-hearted girl who never
could understand that the animals—yes, and the heathen Kaffirs,
too—were given to us by the Lord for our use and comfort.

Presently she started and said, “Ralph, do you remember this place?”

He glanced round and shook his head, for he was wondering whether he
would be able to lift the buck on to the horse without asking Suzanne
to help him.

“Look again,” she said; “look at that flat stone and the mimosa tree
lying on its side near it.”

Ralph dropped the leg of the buck and obeyed her, for he would always
do as Suzanne bade him, and this time it was his turn to start.

“Almighty!” he said, “I remember now. It was here that you found me,
Suzanne, after I was shipwrecked, and the tigers stared at us through
the boughs of that fallen tree,” and he shivered a little, for the
sight of the spot brought back to his heart some of the old terrors
which had haunted his childhood.

“Yes, Ralph, it was here that I found you. I heard the sound of your
voice as you knelt praying on this stone, and I followed it. God heard
that prayer, Ralph.”

“And sent an angel to save me in the shape of a little maid,” he
answered; adding, “Don’t blush so red, dear, for it is true that ever
since that day, whenever I think of angels, I think of you; and
whenever I think of you I think of angels, which shows that you and the
angels must be close together.”

“Which shows that you are a wicked and silly lad to talk thus to a Boer
girl,” she answered, turning away with a smile on her lips and tears in
her eyes, for his words had pleased her mind and touched her heart.

He looked at her, and she seemed so sweet and beautiful as she stood
thus, smiling and weeping together as the sun shines through summer
rain, that, so he told me afterwards, something stirred in his breast,
something soft and strong and new, which caused him to feel as though
of a sudden he had left his boyhood behind him and become a man, aye,
and as though this fresh-faced manhood sought but one thing more from
Heaven to make it perfect, the living love of the fair maiden who until
this hour had been his sister in heart though not in blood.

“Suzanne,” he said in a changed voice, “the horses are tired; let them
rest, and let us sit upon this stone and talk a little, for though we
have never visited it for many years the place is lucky for you and me
since it was here that our lives first came together.”

Now although Suzanne knew that the horses were not tired she did not
think it needful to say him nay.




CHAPTER V.
A LOVE SCENE AND A QUARREL


Presently they were seated side by side upon a stone, Suzanne looking
straight before her, for nature warned her that this talk of theirs was
not to be as other talks, and Ralph looking at Suzanne.

“Suzanne,” he said at length.

“Yes,” she answered; “what is it?” But he made no answer, for though
many words were bubbling in his brain, they choked in his throat, and
would not come out of it.

“Suzanne,” he stammered again presently, and again she asked him what
it was, and again he made no answer. Now she laughed a little and said:

“Ralph, you remind me of the blue-jay in the cage upon the _stoep_
which knows but one word and repeats it all day long.”

“Yes,” he replied, “it is true; I am like that jay, for the word I
taught it is ‘Suzanne,’ and the word my heart teaches me is ‘Suzanne,’
and—Suzanne, I love you!”

Now she turned her head away and looked down and answered:

“I know, Ralph, that you have always loved me since we were children
together, for are we not brother and sister?”

“No,” he answered bluntly, “it is not true.”

“Then that is bad news for me,” she said, “who till to-day have thought
otherwise.”

“It is not true,” he went on, and now his words came fast enough, “that
I am your brother, or that I love you as a brother. We are no kin, and
if I love you as a brother that is only one little grain of my love for
you—yes, only as one little grain is to the whole sea-shore of sand.
Suzanne, I love you as—as a man loves a maid—and if you will it, dear,
all my hope is that one day you will be my wife,” and he ceased
suddenly and stood before her trembling, for he had risen from the
stone.

For a few moments Suzanne covered her face with her hands, and when she
let them fall again he saw that her beautiful eyes shone like the large
stars at night, and that, although she was troubled, her trouble made
her happy.

“Oh! Ralph,” she said at length, speaking in a voice that was different
from any he had ever heard her use, a voice very rich and low and full,
“Oh! Ralph, this is new to me, and yet to speak the truth, it seems as
old as—as that night when first I found you, a desolate, starving
child, praying upon this stone. Ralph, I do will it with all my heart
and soul and body, and I suppose that I have willed it ever since I was
a woman, though until this hour I did not quite know what it was I
willed. Nay, dear, do not touch me, or at the least, not yet. First
hear what I have to say, and then if you desire it, you may kiss me—if
only in farewell.”

“If you will it and I will it, what more can you have to say?” he asked
in a quick whisper, and looking at her with frightened eyes.

“This, Ralph; that our wills, who are young and unlearned, are not all
the world; that there are other wills to be thought of; the wills of
our parents, or of mine rather, and the will of God.”

“For the first,” he answered, “I do not think that they stand in our
path, for they love you and wish you to be happy, although it is true
that I, who am but a wanderer picked up upon the veldt, have no fortune
to offer you—still fortune can be won,” he added doggedly.

“They love you also, Ralph, nor do they care over much for wealth,
either of them, and I am sure that they would not wish you to leave us
to go in search of it.”

“As for the will of God,” he continued, “it was the will of God that I
should be wrecked here, and that you should save me here, and that the
life you saved should be given to you. Will it not, therefore, be the
will of God also that we, who can never be happy apart, should be happy
together and thank Him for our happiness every day till we die?”

“I trust so, Ralph; yet although I have read and seen little, I know
that very often it has been His will that those who love each other
should be separated by death or otherwise.”

“Do not speak of it,” he said with a groan.

“No, I will not speak of it, but there is one more thing of which I
must speak. Strangely enough, only this morning my mother was talking
of you; she said that you are English, and that soon or late blood will
call to blood and you will leave us. She said that your nest is not
here, but there, far away across the sea, among those English; that you
are a swallow that has been fledged with sparrows, and that one day you
will find the wings of a swallow. What put it in her mind to speak
thus, I do not know, but I do know, Ralph, that her words filled me
with fear, and now I understand why I was so much afraid.”

He laughed aloud very scornfully. “Then, Suzanne,” he said, “you may
banish your fears, for this I swear to you, before the Almighty, that
whoever may be my true kin, were a kingdom to be offered to me among
them, unless you could share it, it would be refused. This I swear
before the Almighty, and may He reject me if I forget the oath.”

“You are very young to make such promises, Ralph,” she answered
doubtfully, “nor do I hold them binding on you. At nineteen, so I am
told, a lad will swear anything to the girl who takes his fancy.”

“I am young in years, Suzanne, but I grew old while I was yet a child,
for sorrow aged me. You have heard my oath; let it be put to the test,
and you shall learn whether or no I speak the truth. Do I look like one
who does not know his mind?”

She glanced up at the steady, grey eyes and the stern, set mouth and
answered, “Ralph, you look like one who knows his mind, and I believe
you. Pray God I may not be deceived, for though we are but lad and
girl, if it prove so I tell you that I shall live my life out with a
broken heart.”

“Do not fear, Suzanne. And now I have heard what you had to say, and I
claim your promise. If it be your will I will kiss you, Suzanne, but
not in farewell.”

“Nay,” she answered, “kiss me rather in greeting of the full and
beautiful life that stretches before our feet. Whether the path be
short or long, it will be good for us and ever better, but, Ralph, I
think that the end will be best of all.”

So he took her in his arms, and they kissed each other upon the lips,
and, as they told me afterwards, in that embrace they found some joy.
Why should they not indeed, for if anywhere upon the earth, if it be
given and received in youth before the heart has been seared and
tainted with bitterness and disillusion, surely in such a pledge as
theirs true joy can be found. Yes, and they did more than this, for,
kneeling there upon that rock where once the starving child had knelt
in bygone years, they prayed to Him who had brought them together, to
Him who had given them hearts to love with and bodies to be loved, and
the immortality of Heaven wherein to garner this seed of love thus sown
upon the earth, that He would guide them, bless them, and protect them
through all trials, terrors, sorrows, and separations. As shall be
seen, this indeed He did.

Then they rose, and having, not without difficulty, lifted the
riet-buck ram upon Ralph’s horse and made it fast there, as our hunters
know how to do, they started homewards, walking the most part of the
way, for the load was heavy and they were in no haste, so that they
only reached the farm about noon.

Now I, watching them as we sat at our mid-day meal, grew sure that
something out of the common had passed between them. Suzanne was very
silent, and from time to time glanced at Ralph shyly, whereon, feeling
her eyes, he would grow red as the sunset, and seeing his trouble, she
would colour also, as though with the knowledge of some secret that
made her both happy and ashamed.

“You were long this morning in finding a buck, Ralph,” I said.

“Yes, mother,” he answered; “there were none on the flats, for the
grass is burnt off; and had not Suzanne beaten out a dry pan for me
where the reeds were still green, I think that we should have found
nothing. As it was I shot badly, hitting the ram in the flank, so that
we were obliged to follow it a long way before I came up with it.”

“And where did you find it at last?” I asked.

“In a strange place, mother; yes, in that very spot where many years
ago Suzanne came upon me starving after the shipwreck. There in the
glade and by the flat stone on which I had lain down to die was the
buck, quite dead. We knew the dell again, though neither of us had
visited it from that hour to this, and rested there awhile before we
turned home.”

I made no answer but sat thinking, and a silence fell on all of us. By
this time the Kaffir girls had cleared away the meat and brought in
coffee, which we drank while the men filled their pipes and lit them. I
looked at Jan and saw that he was making up his mind to say something,
for his honest face was troubled, and now he took up his pipe, and now
he put it down, moving his hands restlessly till at length he upset the
coffee over the table.

“Doubtless,” I thought to myself, “he means to tell the tale of the
Englishmen who have come to seek for Ralph. Well, I think that he may
safely tell it now.”

Then I looked at Ralph and saw that he also was very ill at ease,
struggling with words which he did not know how to utter. I noted,
moreover, that Suzanne touched his hand with hers beneath the shelter
of the table as though to comfort and encourage him. Now watching these
two men, at last I broke out laughing, and said, addressing them:

“You are like two fires of green weeds in a mealie patch, and I am
wondering which of you will be the first to break into flame or whether
you will both be choked by the reek of your own thoughts.”

My gibe, harmless though it was, stung them into speech, and both at
once, for I have noticed, however stupid they may be, that men never
like to be laughed at.

“I have something to say,” said each of them, as though with a single
voice, and they paused, looking at one another angrily.

“Then, son, wait till I have finished. Almighty! for the last twenty
minutes you have been sitting as silent as an ant-bear in a hole, and I
tell you that it is my turn now; why, then, do you interrupt me?”

“I am very sorry, my father,” said Ralph, looking much afraid, for he
thought that Jan was going to scold him about Suzanne, and his
conscience being guilty caused him to forget that it was not possible
that he should know anything of the matter of his love-making.

“That is good,” said Jan, still glaring at him; “but I am not your
father.”

“Then why do you call me son?” asked Ralph.

“Almighty! do you suppose that I sit here to answer riddles?” replied
Jan, pulling at his great beard. “Why do I call you son, indeed? Ah!”
he added in a different voice, a sorrowful voice, “why do I when I have
no right? Listen, my boy, we are in sore trouble, I and your mother, or
if she is not your mother at least she loves you as much as though she
were, and I love you too, and you know it; so why do you seek to make a
fool of me by asking me riddles?”

Now, Ralph was about to answer, but Suzanne held up her hand, and he
was quiet.

“My son,” went on Jan with a kind of sob, “they are coming to take you
away from us.”

“They! Who?” asked Ralph.

“Who? The English, damn them! Yes, I say, damn the English and the
English Government.”

“Peace, Jan,” I broke in, “this is not a political meeting, where such
talk is right and proper.”

“The English Government is coming to take me away!” exclaimed Ralph
bewildered. “What has the Government to do with me?”

“No,” said Jan, “not the English Government, but two Scotchmen, which
is much the same thing. I tell you that they are travelling to this
place to take you away.”

Now, Ralph leaned back in his chair and stared at him, for he saw that
it was little use to ask him questions, and that he must leave him to
tell the tale in his own fashion. At last it came out.

“Ralph,” said my husband, “you know that you are not of our blood; we
found you cast up on the beach like a storm-fish and took you in, and
you grew dear to us; yes, although you are English or Scotch, which is
worse, for if the English bully us the Scotch bully us and cheat us
into the bargain. Well, your parents were drowned, and have been in
Heaven for a long time, but I am sorry to say that all your relations
were not drowned with them. At first, however, they took no trouble to
hunt for you when we should have been glad enough to give you up.”

“No,” broke in Suzanne and I with one voice, and I added, “How do you
dare to tell such lies in the face of the Lord, Jan?”

“——When it would not have been so bad to give you up,” he went on,
correcting himself. “But now it seems that had you lived you would have
inherited estates, or titles, or both.”

“Is the boy dead then?” I asked.

“Be silent, wife, I mean—had he lived a Scotchman. Therefore, having
made inquiries, and learned that a lad of your name and age had been
rescued from a shipwreck and was still alive among the Boers in the
Transkei, they have set to work to hunt you, and are coming here to
take you away, for I tell you that I heard it in the dorp yonder.”

“Is it so?” said Ralph, while Suzanne hung upon his words with white
face and trembling lips. “Then I tell you that I will not go. I may be
English, but my home is here. My own father and mother are dead, and
these strangers are nothing to me, nor are the estates and titles far
away anything to me. All that I hold dear on the earth is here in the
Transkei,” and he glanced at Suzanne, who seemed to bless him with her
eyes.

“You talk like a fool,” said Jan, but in a voice which was full of joy
that he could not hide, “as is to be expected of an ignorant boy. Now I
am a man who has seen the world, and I know better, and I tell you that
although they are an accursed race, still it is a fine thing to be a
lord among the English. Yes, yes, I know the English lords. I saw one
once when I went to Capetown; he was the Governor there, and driving
through the streets in state, dressed as bravely as a blue-jay in his
spring plumage, while everybody took off their hats to him, except I,
Jan Botmar, who would not humble myself thus. Yet to have such clothes
as that to wear every day, while all the people salute you and make a
path for you, is not a thing to be laughed at. See boy, it just comes
to this: here you are poor and little, there you may be rich and much,
and it is our duty not to stand in your road, though it may break our
hearts to lose you. So you had best make up your mind to go away with
the damned Scotchmen when they come, though I hope that you will think
kindly of us when you get to your own country. Yes, yes, you shall go,
and what is more, you may take my best horse to ride away on, the
thoroughbred _schimmel_, and my new black felt hat that I bought in the
dorp. There, that is done with, praise be to God, and I am going out,
for this place is so thick with smoke that I can’t see my own hand,”
and he rose to go, adding that if the two Scotchmen did not want a
bullet through them, it would be as well if they kept out of his way
when they came upon the farm.

Now in saying that the room was thick with smoke Jan lied, for both the
men’s pipes went out when they began to talk. But as I knew why he lied
I did not think so much of it. To tell the truth, at that moment I
could see little better than he could, since, although I would have
poisoned those two Scotchmen before I suffered them to take Ralph away,
the very thought of his going was enough to fill my eyes with tears,
and to cause Suzanne to weep aloud shamelessly.

“Wait a bit, father—I beg your pardon, Jan Botmar,” said Ralph in a
clear and angry voice; “it is my turn now, for you may remember that
when we began to talk I had something to say, but you stopped me. Now,
with your leave, as you have got off the horse I will get on.”

Jan slowly sat down again and said:

“Speak. What is it?”

“This: that if you send me away you are likely to lose more than you
bargain for.”

Now Jan stared at him perplexedly, but I smiled, for I guessed what was
to come.

“What am I likely to lose,” he asked, “beyond my best horse and my felt
hat? Allemachter! Do you want my span of black oxen also? Well, you
shall have them if you like, for I should wish you to trek to your new
home in England behind good cattle.”

“No,” answered Ralph coolly, “but I want your daughter, and if you send
me away I think that she will come with me.”




CHAPTER VI.
THE COMING OF THE ENGLISHMEN


Now on hearing this Suzanne said, “Oh!” and sank back in her chair as
though she were going to faint; but I burst out laughing, half because
Ralph’s impertinence tickled me and half at the sight of my husband’s
face. Presently he turned upon me in a fine rage.

“Be silent, you silly woman,” he said. “Do you hear what that mad boy
says? He says that he wants my daughter.”

“Well, what of it?” I answered. “Is there anything wonderful in that?
Suzanne is of an age to be married and pretty enough for any young man
to want her.”

“Yes, yes; that is true now I come to think of it,” said Jan, pulling
his beard. “But, woman, he says that he wants to take her away with
him.”

“Ah!” I replied, “that is another matter. That he shall never do
without my consent.”

“No, indeed, he shall never do that,” echoed Jan.

“Suzanne,” said I in the pause that followed, “you have heard all this
talk. Tell us, then, openly what is your mind in the matter.”

“My mind is, mother,” she answered very quietly, “that I wish to obey
you and my father in all things, as is my duty, but that I have a
deeper duty towards Ralph whom God gave me out of the sea. Therefore,
if you send away Ralph without a cause, if he desires it I shall follow
him as soon as I am of age and marry him, or if you keep me from him by
force then I think that I shall die. That is all I have to say.”

“And quite enough, too,” I answered, though in my heart I liked the
girl’s spirit, and guessed that she was playing a part to prevent her
father from sending away Ralph against his will.

“All this is pretty hearing,” said Jan, staring from one to the other.
“Why, now that I think of it, I never heard that you two were more than
brother and sister to each other. Say, you shameless girl, when did all
this come about, and why do you dare to promise yourself in marriage
without my consent?”

“Because there was no time to ask it, father,” said Suzanne, looking
down, “for Ralph and I only spoke together this morning.”

“He spoke to you this morning, and now it seems that you are ready to
forsake your father and your mother and to follow him across the world,
you wicked and ungrateful child.”

“I am not wicked and I am not ungrateful,” answered Suzanne; “it is you
who are wicked, who want to send Ralph away and break all our hearts.”

“It is false, miss,” shouted her father in answer, “for you know well
that I do not want to send him away.”

“Then why did you tell him that he must go and take your roan horse and
new hat?”

“For his own good, girl.”

“Is it for his own good that he should go away from all of us who love
him and be lost across the sea?” and choking she burst into tears,
while her father muttered:

“Why, the girl has become like a tiger, she who was milder than a
sheep!”

“Hush, Suzanne,” broke in Ralph, “and you who have been father and
mother to me, listen I pray you. It is true that Suzanne and I love
each other very dearly, as we have always loved each other, though how
much we did not know till this morning. Now, I am a waif and a castaway
whom you have nurtured, and have neither lands nor goods of my own,
therefore you may well think that I am no match for your daughter, who
is so beautiful, and who, if she outlives you, will inherit all that
you have. If you decide thus it is just, however hard it may be. But
you tell me, though I have heard nothing of it till now, and I think
that it may be but idle talk, that I have both lands and goods far away
in England, and you bid me begone to them. Well, if you turn me out I
must go, for I cannot stay alone in the veldt without a house, or a
friend, or a hoof of cattle. But then I tell you that when Suzanne is
of age I shall return and marry her, and take her away with me, as I
have a right to do if she desires it, for I will not lose everything
that I love in the world at one stroke. Indeed nothing but death shall
part me from Suzanne. Therefore, it comes to this: either you must let
me stay here and, poor as I am, be married to Suzanne when it shall
please you, or, if you dismiss me, you must be ready to see me come
back and take away Suzanne.”

“Suzanne, Suzanne,” I interrupted angrily, for I grew jealous of the
girl; “have you no thought or word, Ralph, for any save Suzanne?”

“I have thoughts for all,” he answered, “but Suzanne alone has thought
for me, since it seems that your husband would send me away, and you,
mother, sit still and say not a word to stop him.”

“Learn to judge speech and not silence, lad,” I answered. “Look you,
all have been talking, and I have shammed dead like a stink-cat when
dogs are about; now I am going to begin. First of all, you, Jan, are a
fool, for in your thick head you think that rank and wealth are
everything to a man, and therefore you would send Ralph away to seek
rank and wealth that may or may not belong to him, although he does not
wish to go. As for you, Ralph, you are a bigger fool, for you think
that Jan Botmar, your foster-father here, desires to be rid of you when
in truth he only seeks your good to his own sore loss. As for you,
Suzanne, you are the biggest fool of all, for you wish to fly in
everybody’s face, like a cat with her first litter of kittens; but
there, what is the use of arguing with a girl in love? Now listen, and
I will ask you some questions, all of you. Jan, do you wish to send
Ralph away with these strangers?”

“Almighty! vrouw,” he answered, “you know well that I would as soon
send away my right hand. I wish him to stop here for ever, and whatever
I have is his; yes, even my daughter. But I seek what is best for him,
and I would not have it said in after years that Jan Botmar had kept an
English lad not old enough to judge for himself from his rank and
wealth because he took pleasure in his company and wished to marry him
to his girl.”

“Good,” I said. “And now for you, Suzanne; what have you to say?”

“I have nothing to add to my words,” she replied; “you know all my
heart.”

“Good again. And you, Ralph?”

“I say, mother, that I will not budge from this place unless I am
ordered to go, and if I do go, I will come back for Suzanne. I love you
all, and with you I wish to live and nowhere else.”

“Nay, Ralph,” I answered sighing, “if once you go you will never come
back, for out yonder you will find a new home, new interests, and,
perchance, new loves. Well, though nobody has thought of me in this
matter, I have a voice in it, and I will speak for myself. That lad
yonder has been a son to me for many years, and I who have none love
him as such. He is a man as we reckon in this country, and he does not
wish to leave us any more than we wish him to go. Moreover, he loves
Suzanne, and Suzanne loves him, and I believe that the God who brought
them together at first means them to be husband and wife, and that such
love as they bear to each other will give them more together than any
wealth or rank can bring to them apart. Therefore I say, husband, let
our son, Ralph, stay here with us and marry our daughter, Suzanne,
decently and in due season, and let their children be our children, and
their love our love.”

“And how about the Scotchmen who are coming with power to take him
away?”

“Do you and Ralph go to the bush-veldt with the cattle to-morrow,” I
answered, “and leave me to deal with the Scotchmen.”

“Well,” said Jan, “I consent, for who can stand up against so many
words, and the Lord knows that to lose Ralph would have broken my heart
as it would have broken that girl’s, perhaps more so, since girls
change their fancies, but I am too old to change. Come here, my
children.”

They came, and he laid one of his big hands upon the head of each of
them, saying:—

“May the God in Heaven bless you both, who to me are one as dear as the
other, making you happy with each other for many long years, and may He
turn aside from you and from us the punishment that is due to all of us
because, on account of our great love, we are holding you back, Ralph,
from the home, the kin and the fortune to which you were born.” Then he
kissed each of them on the forehead and let them go.

“If there be any punishment for that which is no sin, on my head be
it,” said Ralph, “since never would I have gone from here by my own
will.”

“Aye, aye,” answered Jan, “but who can take account of the talk of a
lad in love? Well, we have committed the sin and we must bear the
sorrow. Now I go out to see to the kraaling of the cattle, which we
will drive off to the bush-veldt to-morrow at dawn, for I will have
naught to do with these Scotchmen; your mother must settle with them as
she wills, only I beg of her that she will tell me nothing of the
bargain. Nay, do not come with me, Ralph; stop you with your dear, for
to-morrow you will be parted for a while.”

So he went, and did not return again till late, and we three sat
together and made pretense to be very happy, but somehow were a little
sad, for Jan’s words about sin and sorrow stuck in our hearts, as the
honest words of a stupid, upright man are apt to do.

Now on the morrow at dawn, as had been arranged, Jan and Ralph rode
away to the warm veldt with the cattle, leaving me and Suzanne to look
after the farm. Three days later the Scotchmen came, and then it was
that for love of Ralph and for the sake of the happiness of my daughter
I sinned the greatest sin of all my life—the sin that was destined to
shape the fates of others yet unborn.

I was seated on the _stoep_ in the afternoon when I saw three white men
and some Cape boys, their servants, riding up to the house.

“Here come those who would steal my boy from me,” I thought to myself,
and, like Pharaoh, I hardened my heart.

Now in those days my sight was very good, and while the men were yet
some way off I studied them all and made up my mind about them. First
there was a large young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, and I
noted with a sort of fear that he was not unlike to Ralph. The eyes
were the same and the shape of the forehead, only this gentleman had a
weak, uncertain mouth, and I judged that he was very good-humoured, but
of an indolent mind. By his side rode another man of quite a different
stamp, and middle-aged. “The lawyer,” I said to myself as I looked at
his weasel-like face, bushy eyebrows, and red hair. Indeed, that was an
easy guess, for who can mistake a lawyer, whatever his race may be?
That trade is stronger than any blood, and leaves the same seal on all
who follow it. Doubtless if those lawyers of whom the Lord speaks hard
things in the Testament were set side by side with the lawyers who draw
mortgage bonds and practise usury here in South Africa, they would
prove to be as like to each other as are the grains of corn upon one
mealie cob. Yes, when, all dressed the same, they stand together among
the goats on the last day few indeed will know them apart.

“A fool and a knave,” said I to myself. “Well, perhaps I can deal with
the knave and then the fool will not trouble me.”

As for the third man, I took no pains to study him, for I saw at once
that he was nothing but an interpreter.

Well, up they rode to the _stoep_, the two Englishmen taking off their
hats to me, after their foolish fashion, while the interpreter, who
called me “Aunt,” although I was younger than he was, asked for leave
to off-saddle, according to our custom. I nodded my head, and having
given the horses to the Cape boys, they came up onto the _stoep_ and
shook hands with me as I sat. I was not going to rise to greet two
Englishmen whom I already hated in my heart, first because they _were_
Englishmen, and secondly because they were about to tempt me into sin,
for such sooner or later we always learn to hate.

“Sit,” I said, pointing to the yellow-wood bench which was seated with
strips of _rimpi_, and the three of them squeezed themselves into the
bench and sat there like white-breasted crows on a bough; the young man
staring at me with a silly smile, the lawyer peering this way and that,
and turning up his sharp nose at the place and all in it, and the
interpreter doing nothing at all, for he was a sensible man, who knew
the habits of well-bred people and how to behave in their presence.
After five minutes or so the lawyer grew impatient, and said something
in a sharp voice, to which the interpreter answered, “Wait.”

So they waited till, just as the young man was beginning to go to sleep
before my very eyes, Suzanne came onto the verandah, whereupon he woke
up in a hurry, and, jumping off the bench, began to bow and scrape and
to offer her his seat, for there was no other.

“Suzanne,” I said, taking no notice of his bad manners, “get coffee,”
and she went, looking less displeased at his grimaces than I would have
had her do.

In time the coffee came, and they drank it, or pretended to, after
which the lawyer began to grow impatient once more, and spoke to the
interpreter, who said to me that they had come to visit us on a matter
of business.

“Then tell him that it can wait till after we have eaten,” I answered.
“It is not my habit to talk business in the afternoon. Why is the
lawyer man so impatient, seeing that doubtless he is paid by the day?”

This was translated, and the lawyer asked how I knew his trade.

“In the same way that I know a weasel by its face and a stink-cat by
its smell,” I replied, for every minute I hated that advocate more.

At this answer the lawyer grew white with anger, and the young lord
burst into a roar of laughter, for, as I have said, these English
people have no manners. However, they settled themselves down again on
the yellow-wood bench and looked at me; while I, folding my hands, sat
opposite, and looked at them for somewhere about another hour, as the
interpreter told them that if they moved I should be offended, and, for
my part, I was determined that I would not speak to them of their
business until Suzanne had gone to bed.

At last, when I saw that they would bear it no longer, for they were
becoming very wrathful, and saying words that sounded like oaths, I
called for supper and we went in and ate it. Here again I noticed the
resemblance between the young man and Ralph, for he had the same tricks
of eating and drinking, and I saw that when he had done his meat he
turned himself a little sideways from the table, crossing his legs in a
peculiar fashion just as it always had been Ralph’s habit to do.

“The two had one grandfather, or one grandmother,” I said to myself,
and grew afraid at the thought.




CHAPTER VII.
THE SIN OF VROUW BOTMAR


When the meat was cleared away I bade Suzanne go to bed, which she did
most unwillingly, for knowing the errand of these men she wished to
hear our talk. As soon as she was gone I took a seat so that the light
of the candles left my face in shadow and fell full on those of the
three men—a wise thing to do if one is wicked enough to intend to tell
lies about any matter—and said:

“Now, here I am at your service; be pleased to set out the business
that you have in hand.”

Then they began, the lawyer, speaking through the interpreter, asking,
“Are you the Vrouw Botmar?”

“That is my name.”

“Where is your husband, Jan Botmar?”

“Somewhere on the veldt; I do not know where.”

“Will he be back to-morrow?”

“No.”

“When will he be back?”

“Perhaps in two months, perhaps in three, I cannot tell.”

At this they consulted together, and then went on:

“Have you living with you a young Englishman named Ralph Mackenzie?”

“One named Ralph Kenzie lives with us.”

“Where is he?”

“With my husband on the veldt. I do not know where.”

“Can you find him?”

“No, the veldt is very wide. If you wish to see him you must wait till
he comes back.”

“When will that be?”

“I am not his nurse and cannot tell; perhaps in three months, perhaps
six.”

Now again they consulted, and once more went on:

“Was the boy, Ralph Mackenzie, or Kenzie, shipwrecked in the _India_ in
the year 1824?”

“Dear Lord!” I cried, affecting to lose my patience, “am I an old
Kaffir wife up before the Landdrost for stealing hens that I should be
cross-questioned in this fashion? Set out all your tale at once, man,
and I will answer it.”

Thereon, shrugging his shoulders, the lawyer produced a paper which the
interpreter translated to me. In it were written down the names of the
passengers who were upon the vessel _India_ when she sailed from a
place called Bombay, and among the names those of Lord and Lady
Glenthirsk and of their son, the Honourable Ralph Mackenzie, aged nine.
Then followed the evidence of one or two survivors of the shipwreck,
which stated that Lady Glenthirsk and her son were seen to reach the
shore in safety in the boat that was launched from the sinking ship.
After this came a paragraph from an English newspaper published in
Capetown, dated not two years before, and headed “Strange Tale of the
Sea,” which paragraph, with some few errors, told the story of the
finding of Ralph—though how the writing man knew it I know not, unless
it was through the tutor with the blue spectacles of whom I have
spoken—and said that he was still living on the farm of Jan Botmar in
the Transkei. This was all that was in the paper. I asked to look at it
and kept it, saying in the morning that the Kaffir girl seeing it lying
about the kitchen had used it to light the fire; but to this day it is
with the other things in the waggon chest under my bed.

When the paper was done with, the lawyer took up the tale and told me
that it was believed in England that Lord Glenthirsk had been drowned
in the sea, as indeed he was, and that Lady Glenthirsk and her son
perished on the shore with the other women and children, for so those
sent by the English Government to search out the facts had reported.
Thus it came about that after a while Lord Glenthirsk’s younger brother
was admitted by law to his title and estates, which he enjoyed for some
eight years, that is, until his death. About a year before he died,
however, someone sent him the paragraph headed “Strange Tale of the
Sea,” and he was much disturbed by it, though to himself he argued that
it was nothing but an idle story, such as it seems are often put into
newspapers. The end of the matter was that he took no steps to discover
whether the tale were true or false, and none knew of it save himself,
and he was not minded to go fishing in that ugly water. So it came
about that he kept silent as the grave, till at length, when the grave
yawned at his feet, and when the rank and the lands and the wealth were
of no more use to him, he opened his mouth to his son and to his
lawyer, the two men who sat before me, and to them only, bidding them
seek out the beginning of the tale, and if it were true, to make
restitution to his nephew.

Now—for all this, listening with my ears wide open, and sometimes
filling in what was not told me in words, I gathered from the men
before they left the house—as it chanced the dying lord could not have
chosen two worse people for such an errand, seeing that although the
son was honest, both of them were interested in proving the tale to be
false. Since that time, however, often I have thought that he knew this
himself, and trusted by the choice both to cheat his own conscience and
to preserve the wealth and dignity for his son. God, to whom he has
gone, alone knows the truth of it, but with such a man it may very well
have been as I think. I say that both were interested, for it seems, as
he told me afterwards, that the lawyer was to receive a great sum—ten
thousand pounds—under the will of the dead lord for whom he had done
much during his lifetime. But if Ralph were proved to be the heir this
sum would have been his and not the lawyer’s, for the money was part of
his father’s inheritance; therefore it was worth just ten thousand
pounds to that lawyer to convince himself and the false lord that Ralph
was not the man, and therefore it was that I found him so easy to deal
with.

Now after his father was dead the lawyer tried to persuade the son to
take no notice of his dying words, and to let the matter rest where it
was, seeing that he had nothing to gain and much to lose. But this he
would not consent to, for, as I have said, he was honest, declaring
that he could not be easy in his mind till he knew the truth, and that
if he did not go to find it out himself he would send others to do so
for him. As the lawyer desired this least of anything, he gave way, and
they set out upon their journey—which in those days was a very great
journey indeed—arriving at last in safety at our stead in the Transkei;
for, whether he liked it or not, his companion—who now was called Lord
Glenthirsk—would not be turned aside from the search or suffer him to
prosecute it alone.

At length, when all the tale was told, the lawyer looked at me with his
sharp eyes and said, through the interpreter:

“Vrouw Botmar, you have heard the story, tell us what you know. Is the
young man who lives with you he whom we seek?”

Now I thought for a second, though that second seemed like a year. All
doubt had left me, there was no room for it. Ralph and no other was the
man, and on my answer might hang his future. But I had argued the thing
out before and made up my mind to lie, though, so far as I know, it is
the only lie I ever told, and I am not a woman who often changes her
mind. Therefore I lied.

“It is not he,” I said, “though for his sake I might wish that it were,
and this I can prove to you.”

Now, when I had told this great falsehood, prompted to it by my love
for the lad and my love for Suzanne, his affianced wife, my mind grew
as it were empty for a moment, and I remember that in the emptiness I
seemed to hear a sound of laughter echoing in the air somewhere above
the roof of the house. Very swiftly I recovered myself, and looking at
the men I saw that my words rejoiced them, except the interpreter
indeed, who being a paid servant coming from far away, from the
neighbourhood of Capetown I believe, had no interest in the matter one
way or the other beyond that of earning his money with as little
trouble as possible. Yes, they smiled at each other, looking as though
a great weight had been lifted off their minds, till presently the
lawyer checked himself and said:

“Be so good as to set out the proofs of which you speak, Vrouw Botmar.”

“I will,” I answered, “but tell me first, the ship _India_ was wrecked
in the year 1824, was she not?”

“Undoubtedly,” answered the lawyer.

“Well, have you heard that another ship called the _Flora_, travelling
from the Cape I know not whither, was lost on this coast in the same
month of the following year, and that a few of her passengers escaped?”

“I have heard of it,” he said.

“Good. Now look here,” and going to a chest that stood beneath the
window, I lifted from it the old Bible that belonged to my grandfather
and father, on the white pages at the beginning of which are written
the record of many births, marriages, deaths and other notable events
that had happened in the family. Opening it I searched and pointed to a
certain entry inscribed in the big writing of my husband Jan, and in
ink which was somewhat faint, for the ink that the traders sold us in
those days had little virtue in it. Beneath this entry were others made
by Jan in later years, telling of things that had happened to us, such
as the death of his great-aunt who left him money, the outbreak of
small-pox on the farm, and the number of people who died from it, the
attack of a band of the red Kaffirs upon our house, when by the mercy
of God we beat them off, leaving twelve of their dead behind them, but
taking as many of our best oxen, and so forth.

“Read,” I said, and the interpreter read as follows:

“On the twelfth day of September in the year 1825 (the date being
written in letters) our little daughter Suzanne found a starving
English boy in a kloof, who had been shipwrecked on the coast. We have
taken him in as a gift of the Lord. He says that his name is Rolf
Kenzie.”

“You see the date,” I said.

“Yes,” answered the lawyer, “and it has not been altered!”

“No,” I added, “it has not been altered;” but I did not tell them that
Jan had not written it down till afterwards, and then by mistake had
recorded the year in which he wrote, refusing to change it, although I
pointed out the error, because, he said, there was no room, and that it
would make a mess in the book.

“There is one more thing,” I went on; “you say the mother of him you
seek was a great lady. Well, I saw the body of the mother of the boy
who was found, and it was that of a common person very roughly clad
with coarse underclothes and hands hard with labour, on which there was
but one ring, and that of silver. Here it is,” and going to a drawer I
took from it a common silver ring which I once bought from a pedlar
because he worried me into it. “Lastly, gentlemen, the father of our
lad was no lord, unless in your country it is the custom of lords to
herd sheep, for the boy told me that in his own land his father was a
shepherd, and that he was travelling to some distant English colony to
follow his trade. That is all I have to say about it, though I am sorry
that the lad is not here to tell it you himself.”

When he had heard this statement of mine, which I made in a cold and
indifferent voice, the young lord, Ralph’s cousin, rose and stretched
himself, smiling happily.

“Well,” he said, “there is the end of a very bad nightmare, and I am
glad enough that we came here and found out the truth, for had we not
done so I should never have been happy in my mind.”

“Yes,” answered the lawyer, the interpreter rendering their words all
the while, “the Vrouw Botmar’s evidence is conclusive, though I shall
put her statement in writing and ask her to sign it. There is only one
thing, and that is the strange resemblance of the names,” and he
glanced at him with his quick eyes.

“There are many Mackenzies in Scotland,” answered Lord Glenthirsk, “and
I have no doubt that this poor fellow was a shepherd emigrating with
his wife and child to Australia or somewhere.” Then he yawned and
added, “I am going outside to get some air before I sleep. Perhaps you
will draw up the paper for the good lady to sign.”

“Certainly, my lord,” answered the lawyer, and the young man went away
quite convinced.

After he had gone the lawyer produced pen and ink and wrote out the
statement, putting in it all the lies that I had told, and copying the
extract from the fly-leaf of the Bible. When he had done the
interpreter translated it to me, and then it was that the lawyer told
me about the last wishes of the dying lord, and how it would have cost
him ten thousand pounds and much business also had the tale proved
true. Now at last he gave me the paper to sign. Besides the candles on
the table, which being of mutton fat had burnt out, there was a lamp
fed with whale’s oil, but this also was dying, the oil being exhausted,
so that its flame, which had sunk low, jumped from time to time with a
little noise, giving out a blue light. In that unholy blue light, which
turned our faces ghastly pale, the lawyer and I looked at each other as
I sat before him, the pen in my hand, and in his eyes I read that he
was certain that I was about to sign to a wicked lie, and in mine he
read that I knew it to be a lie.

For a while we stared at each other thus, discovering each other’s
souls. “Sign,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “the light dies.”

Then I signed, and as I wrote the lamp went out, leaving us in
darkness, and through the darkness once more I heard that sound of
laughter echoing in the air above the house.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE WISDOM OF SUZANNE


Now, although Suzanne heard not a word of our talk, still she grasped
its purport well enough, for she knew that I proposed to throw dust
into the eyes of the Englishmen. This troubled her conscience sorely,
for the more she thought of it the more did it seem to her to be wicked
that just because we loved him and did not wish to part with him, Ralph
should be cheated of his birthright. All night long she lay awake
brooding, and before ever the dawn broke she had settled in her mind
that she herself would speak to the Englishmen, telling them the truth,
come what might of her words, for Suzanne, my daughter, was a
determined girl with an upright heart. Now feeling happier because of
her decision, at length she fell asleep and slept late, and as it
happened this accident of fate was the cause of the miscarriage of her
scheme.

It came about in this way. Quite early in the morning—at sun-up,
indeed—the Englishmen rose, and coming out of the little guest-chamber,
drank the coffee that I had made ready for them, and talked together
for a while. Then the young lord—Ralph’s cousin—said that as they
journeyed yesterday at a distance of about an hour on horseback from
the farm he had noticed a large _vlei_, or _pan_, where were many ducks
and also some antelope. To this _vlei_ he proposed to ride forward with
one servant only, and to stay there till the others overtook him,
shooting the wild things which lived in the place, for to be happy
these Englishmen must always be killing something. So he bade me
farewell, making me a present of the gold chain which he took off his
watch, which chain I still have. Then he rode away, smiling after his
fashion; and as I watched him go I was glad to think that he was no
knave but only an easy tool in the hands of others. We never met again,
but I believe that death finished his story many years ago; indeed, all
those of whom I tell are dead; only Jan and I survive, and our course
is well-nigh run.

When Suzanne awoke at length, having heard from a Kaffir girl that the
strangers had ordered their horses, but not that the young lord had
ridden forward, she slipped from the house silently, fearing lest I
should stay her, and hid herself in a little patch of bush at the
corner of the big mealie field by which she knew the Englishmen must
pass on their return journey. Presently she heard them coming, and when
she saw that the young lord was not with them, she went to the lawyer,
who pulled up his horse and waited for her, the rest of the party
riding on, and asked where his master was, saying that she wished to
talk with him. And here I must say, if I have not said it before, that
Suzanne could speak English, though not well. The Hollander tutor had
instructed her in that tongue, in which Ralph also would converse with
her at times when he did not wish others to understand what they were
saying, for he never forgot his mother language, though he mixed many
Dutch words with it.

“He has ridden forward an hour or more ago. Can I take any message to
him for you?” said the lawyer. “Or if you wish to talk of business, to
speak to me is to speak to him.”

“That may be so,” answered Suzanne, “still I like to draw my water at
the fountain itself. Yet, as he has gone, I beg you to listen to me,
for when you have heard what I have to say I think that you will bring
him back. You came here about Ralph Kenzie, did you not, and my mother
told you that he is not the man whom you seek, did she not?”

The lawyer nodded.

“Well, I tell you that all this tale is false, for he is the very man,”
and she poured out the true story of Ralph and of the plot that had
been made to deceive them about him.

Now, as I have said, Suzanne’s English was none of the best and it is
possible that the lawyer did not understand. For my part, however, I
think that he understood well enough, for she told me afterwards that
is face grew grey and anxious as he listened, and that at length he
said:

“All this you tell me is very strange and weighty, so much so that I
must bring my friend back to look more closely into the matter. Return
now to the farm and say nothing of having met me, for by this evening,
or to-morrow at the latest, we will come there again and sift out the
truth of this question.”

To this she agreed, being guileless, and the lawyer rode away after the
other. All that day and all the next Suzanne scarcely spoke to me, but
I saw that she was expecting something to happen, and that she glanced
continually towards the path by which the Englishmen had journeyed,
thinking to see them riding back to the farm. But they rode back no
more, and I am sure that the cunning lawyer never breathed one word of
his meeting with Suzanne and of what took place at it to the young
lord. That book was shut and it did not please him to reopen it, since
to do so might have cost him ten thousand pounds. On the third morning
I found Suzanne still looking down the path, and my patience being
exhausted by her silence, I spoke to her sharply.

“What are you doing, girl?” I asked. “Have we not had enough visitors
of late that you must stand here all day awaiting more?”

“I seek no new visitors,” Suzanne said, “but those who have been here
only, and I see now that I seek in vain.”

“What do you mean, Suzanne?”

Now of a sudden she seemed to make up her mind to speak, for she turned
and faced me boldly, saying:

“I mean, mother, that I told the Englishman with the red hair, the
agent, that all the fine tale you spun to him about Ralph was false,
and that he _was_ the man they came to find.”

“You dared to do that, girl?” I said, then checked myself and added,
“Well, what did the man say?”

“He said that he would ride on and bring the young lord back that I
might talk with him, but they have not come.”

“No, nor will they, Suzanne, for if they sought they did not wish to
find, or at least the lawyer did not wish it, for he had too much at
stake. Well, things have gone finely with you, seeing that your hands
are clean from sin, and that Ralph still stays at your side.”

“The sin of the parents is the sin of the child,” she answered, and
then of a sudden she took fire as it were, and fell upon me and beat me
with her tongue; nor could I hold my own before this girl of eighteen,
the truth being that she had right on her side, and I knew it. She told
me that we were wicked plotters who, to pleasure ourselves, had stolen
from Ralph everything except his life; and many other such hard sayings
she threw at me till at last I could bear it no more, but gave her back
word for word. Indeed, it would be difficult to say which had the best
of that quarrel, for if Suzanne’s tongue was the nimbler and her words
were winged with truth, I had the weight of experience on my side and
the custom of authority. At last, as she paused breathless, I cried
out:

“And for whose sake was all this done, you ungrateful chit, if it was
not for your own?”

“If that was so, which is not altogether true,” she answered, “it would
have pleased me better, if, rather than make me a partner in this
crime, and set me as bait to snare Ralph, you had left me to look after
my own welfare.”

“What!” I exclaimed, “are you then so shallow hearted that you were
ready to bid farewell to him who for many years has been as your
brother, and is now your affianced husband? You know well whatever he
might promise now, that if once he had gone across the sea to England,
you would have seen him no more.”

“No,” she answered, growing calm of a sudden, “I was not so prepared,
for sooner would I die than lose Ralph.”

“How, then, do you square this with all your fine talk?” I asked,
thinking that at length I had trapped her. “If he had gone you must
have lost him.”

“Not so,” she answered, innocently, “for I should have married him
before he went, and then I could have been certain that he would return
here whenever I wished it.”

Now when I heard this I gasped, partly because the girl’s cleverness
took the breath from me, and partly with mortification that I should
have lived to learn wisdom from the mouth of a babe and a suckling. For
there was no doubt of it, this plan, of which I had not even thought,
was the answer to the riddle, since by means of it Ralph might have
kept his own, and we, I doubt not, should have kept Ralph. Once married
to Suzanne he would have returned to her, or if she had gone with him
for a little while, which might have been better, she would certainly
have brought him back, seeing that she loved us and her home too well
to forsake them.

Yes, I gasped, and the only answer that I could make when I reflected
how little need there had been for the sin which we had sinned, was to
burst into weeping, whereon Suzanne ran to me and kissed me and we made
friends again. But all the same, I do not think that she ever thought
quite so well of me afterwards, and if I thought the more of her, still
I made up my mind that the sooner she was married and had a husband of
her own to preach to, the better it would be for all of us.

Thus ended the story of the coming of the Englishmen, and of how Ralph
lost his wealth and rank. We never heard or saw more of them, seeing
that in those days before the great Trek we did not write letters, and
if we had we should not have known where to send them, nor did the
post-cart pass the door twice a week as it does in this overcrowded
land of Natal.

Now I must go on to tell of the doings of that devil upon earth, Swart
Piet, and of how the little Kaffir witch-doctoress, Sihamba Ngenyanga,
which means She-who-walks-by-the-moonlight, became the slave and
saviour of Suzanne.

At this time the Heer van Vooren, Swart Piet’s father, had been dead
for two years, and there were strange stories as to the manner of his
death which I do not think it necessary to set out here. Whether or no
Swart Piet did or did not murder his father I cannot say, nor does it
matter, for at the least he worked other crimes as bad. After the death
of the Heer van Vooren, however he may have chanced to die, this is
certain, that Swart Piet inherited great riches as we used to reckon
riches in those days; that is, he had vast herds of cattle and goats
and sheep, some of which were kept for him by native chiefs far away,
as much land as he wanted, and, it was said, a good sum in English
gold. But he was a strange man, not like to other men, for he married
no wife and courted no misses, that is until he took to courting
Suzanne, and his only pleasure was to keep the company of Kaffir chiefs
and women and to mix himself up with the devilments of the
witch-doctors. Still, as every man has his fate, at last he fell in
love with Suzanne, and in love with her he remained during all his
wicked life, if that can be love which seeks to persecute and bring
misery upon its object. It was just before the coming of the Englishmen
that this passion of his manifested itself, for whenever he met the
girl—outside the house for the most part, since Jan did not like to
have him in it—he made sweet speeches and passed foolish pleasantries
which, to be just, I am sure Suzanne never encouraged, since all her
heart was elsewhere.

Now Swart Piet had information of everything, for his Kaffir spies
brought it to him; therefore he very soon learned that Jan and Ralph
had gone away with the cattle to the warm veldt, and that we two women
were alone in the house. This was his opportunity, and one of which he
availed himself, for now two or three times a week he would ride over
from his place, take supper and ask leave to sleep, which it was
difficult to refuse, all this time wearying the poor girl with his
attentions. At last I spoke my mind to him about it, though not without
hesitation, for to tell truth Swart Piet was one of the few men of whom
I have ever been afraid. He listened to me politely and answered:

“All this is very true, Aunt, but if you desire a fruit and it will not
fall, then you must shake the tree.”

“What if it sticks to the bough?” I asked.

“Then, Aunt, you must climb the tree and pluck it.”

“And what if by that time it is in another man’s pouch?”

“Then, Aunt,” he answered with one of those dark smiles that turned my
blood cold, “then, Aunt, the best thing which you can do is to kill the
other man and take it out, for after that the fruit will taste all the
sweeter.”

“Get you gone, Swart Piet,” I said in anger, “for no man who talks thus
shall stay in my house, and it is very well for you that neither my
husband nor Ralph Kenzie are here to put you out of it.”

“Well,” he answered, “they are not here, are they? And as for your
house, it is a pretty place, but I only seek one thing in it, and that
is not built into the walls. I thank you for your hospitality, Aunt,
and now, good-day to you.”

“Suzanne!” I called, “Suzanne!” for I thought that she was in her
chamber; but the girl, knowing that Piet van Vooren was here, had
slipped out, and of this he was aware. He knew, moreover, where she had
gone, for I think that one of his Kaffir servants was watching outside
and told him, and thither he followed her and made love to her.

In the end—for he would not be put off—he asked her for a kiss, whereat
she grew angry. Then, for he was no shy wooer, he tried to take it by
force; but she was strong and active and slipped from him. Instead of
being ashamed, he only laughed after his uncanny fashion, and said:

“Well, missy, you have the best of me now, but I shall win that kiss
yet. Oh! I know all about it; you love the English castaway, don’t you?
But there, a woman can love many men in her life, and when one is dead
another will serve her turn.”

“What do you mean, myn Heer van Vooren?” asked Suzanne, afraid.

“Mean? Nothing, but I shall win that kiss yet, yes, and before very
long.”




CHAPTER IX.
HOW SUZANNE SAVED SIHAMBA


Now in a valley of the hills, something over an hour’s ride from the
farm, and not far from the road that ran to Swart Piet’s place, lived
the little Kaffir witch-doctoress, Sihamba Ngenyanga. This woman did
not belong to any of the Transkei or neighbouring tribes, but had
drifted down from the North; indeed, she was of Swazi or some such
blood, though why she left her own people we did not know at that time.
In appearance Sihamba was very strange, for, although healthy,
perfectly shaped and copper-coloured rather than black, she was no
taller than a child of twelve years old—a thing that made many people
believe that she was a bush woman, which she most certainly was not.
For a Kaffir also she was pretty, having fine small features, beautiful
white teeth, and a fringe of wavy black hair that stood out stiffly
round her head something after the fashion of the gold plates which the
saints wear in the pictures in our old Bible.

This woman Sihamba, who might have been a little over thirty years of
age, had been living in our neighbourhood for some three or four years
and practising as a doctoress. Not that she was a “black” doctoress,
for she never took part in the “smelling-out” of human beings for
witchcraft or in the more evil sort of rites. Her trade was to sell
charms and medicines to the sick, also to cure animals of their
ailments, at which, indeed, she was very clever, though there was some
who said that when she chose she could “throw the bones” and tell the
future better than most, and this without dressing herself up in
bladders and snake skins, or falling into fits, or trances, and such
mummery. Lastly, amongst the natives about, and some of the Boers too,
I am sorry to say, she had the reputation of being the best of
rainmakers, and many were the head of cattle that she earned by
prophesying the break-up of a drought, or the end of continual rains.
Indeed, it is certain that no one whom I ever knew had so great a gift
of insight into the omens of the weather at all seasons of the year, as
this strange Sihamba Ngenyanga, a name that she got, by the way,
because of her habit of wandering about in the moonlight to gather the
herbs and the medicine roots which she used in her trade.

On several occasions Jan had sent animals to be doctored by this
Sihamba, for she would not come out to attend to them whatever fee was
offered to her. At first I did not approve of it, but as she always
cured the animals, whatever their ailments might be, I gave in on the
matter.

Now it happened that a few months before some travellers who had
guested at our house gave Suzanne a little rough-haired dog bred of
parents which had been brought from England. Of this dog Suzanne grew
very fond, and when it fell sick of the distemper she was in much
distress. So it came about that one afternoon Suzanne put the dog in a
basket, and taking with her an old Hottentot to carry it, set out upon
her grey mare for the valley where Sihamba lived. Now Sihamba had her
hut and the huts of the few people in her service in a recess at the
end of the valley, so placed that until you were quite on to them you
would never have guessed that they were there. Down this valley Suzanne
rode, the Hottentot with the basket on his head trotting by her side,
till turning the corner she came upon a scene which she had very little
expected. In one part of the open space beyond her, herded by some
Kaffirs, were a number of cattle, sheep and goats. Opposite to them in
the shadow under the hillside stood the huts of Sihamba, and in front
of these grew a large tree. Beneath this tree was Sihamba herself with
scarcely any clothing on her, for she had been stripped, her tiny
wrists bound together behind her back and a rope about her neck, of
which one end was thrown over a bough of the tree. In front of her,
laughing brutally, stood none other than Swart Piet and with him a
small crowd of men, mostly half-breed wanderers of the sort that trek
from place to place claiming hospitality on the grounds of cousinship
or poverty, until they are turned off as a nuisance. Also there were
present a few Kaffirs, either headmen in Swart Piet’s pay or some of
his dark associates in witchcraft.

At first Suzanne was inclined to turn her horse and fly, but she was a
brave girl, and the perilous state of the little doctoress moved her to
pity, for where Swart Piet was there she suspected cruelty and wicked
motive. So she rode on, yes, straight up to Swart Piet himself.

“In the name of Heaven what passes here, myn Heer?” she asked.

“Ah! Miss Suzanne, is it you?” he answered. “Well, you have not chosen
a nice time for your visit, for we are about to—hang—this thief and
witch, who has been duly convicted after a fair trial.”

“A fair trial,” said Suzanne, glancing scornfully at the rabble about
her, “and were these friends of yours the jury? What is her offence?”

“Her offence is that she who lives here on my land has stolen my cattle
and hid them away in a secret kloof. It has been proved against her by
ample evidence. There are the cattle yonder mixed up with her own. I,
as Veld-Cornet of the district, have tried the case according to law,
and the woman having been found guilty must die according to law.”

“Indeed, myn Heer,” said Suzanne, “then if I understand you right, you
are both accuser and judge, and the law which permits this is one that
I never heard of. Oh!” she went on angrily, “no wonder that the English
sing a loud song about us Boers and our cruelty to the natives when
such a thing as this can happen. It is not justice, myn Heer; it is a
crime for which, if you escape the hand of man, God will bring you to
account.”

Then for the first time Sihamba spoke in a very quiet voice, which
showed no sign of fear.

“You are right, lady,” she said; “it is not justice, it is a crime born
of revenge, and my life must pay forfeit for his wickedness. I am a
free woman, and I have harmed none and have bewitched none. I have
cured sick people and sick creatures, that is all. The Heer says that I
live upon his land, but I am not his slave; I pay him rent to live
here. I never stole his cattle; they were mixed up with mine by his
servants in a far-off kloof in order to trump up a charge against me,
and he knows it, for he gave orders that the thing should be done, so
that afterwards he might have the joy of hanging me to this tree,
because he wishes to be avenged upon me for other matters, private
matters between me and him. But, lady, do not trouble yourself about
the fate of such a poor black creature as I am. Go away and tell the
story if you will, but go quickly, for these sights of death are not
fit for young eyes like yours to see.”

“I will not go,” exclaimed Suzanne, “or if I go, it shall be to bring
down upon you, Swart Piet, the weight of the law which you have broken.
Ah! would that my father were at home; he does not love Kaffirs but he
does love justice.”

Now when they heard Suzanne speaking such bold words and saw the fire
in her eyes, Swart Piet and those with him began to grow afraid. The
hanging of a witch-doctoress after a formal trial upon the charge of
theft of cattle was no great matter in those days, for such thefts were
common and a cause of much trouble to out-lying farmers, nor would
anyone in these half-settled regions be likely to look too closely into
the rights and wrongs of an execution on account of them. But if a
white person who was present went away to proclaim to the authorities,
perhaps even to the Governor of the Cape, whose ear could always be won
through the missionaries of the London Society, that this pretended
execution was nothing but a murder, then the thing became serious. From
the moment that Suzanne began to speak on behalf of Sihamba, Swart Piet
had seen that it would be impossible to hang her unless he wished to
risk his own neck. But he guessed also that the girl could not know
this, and therefore he determined to make terms by working on her pity,
such terms as should put her to shame before all those gathered there;
yes, and leave something of a stain upon her heart for so long as she
should live.

“I do not argue law with young ladies,” he said, with a little laugh,
“but I am always ready to oblige young ladies, especially this young
lady. Now, yonder witch and cattle-thief has richly earned her doom,
yet, because you ask it, Suzanne Botmar, I am ready to withdraw the
prosecution against her, and to destroy the written record of it in my
hand, on two conditions, of which the first is that she pays over to me
by way of compensation for what she has stolen, all her cattle and
other belongings. Do you consent to that, witch?”

“How can I refuse?” said Sihamba, with a bitter laugh, “seeing that if
I do you will take both life and goods. But what is the second
condition?”

“I am coming to that, witch, but it has nothing to do with you.
Suzanne, it is this: that here, before all these people, as the price
of this thief’s life, you give me the kiss which you refused to me the
other day.”

Now, before Suzanne could answer, Sihamba broke in eagerly, “Nay, lady,
let not your lips be stained and your heart be shamed for the sake of
such as I. Better that I should die than that you should suffer
defilement at the hands of Swart Piet, who, born of white blood and
black, is false to both and a disgrace to both.”

“I cannot do it,” gasped Suzanne, turning pale and not heeding her
outburst, “and, Heer van Vooren, you are a coward to ask it of me.”

“Can’t you?” he sneered. “Well, you need not, unless you please, and it
is true that young women like best to be kissed alone. Here, you
Kaffirs, pull that little devil up; slowly now, that she may learn what
a tight string feels like about her throat before it chokes her.”

In obedience to his command three of the evil fellows with him caught
hold of the end of the rope which hung over the bough, and began to
pull, dragging the light form of Sihamba upwards till only the tips of
her big toes touched the ground.

“Doesn’t she dance prettily?” said Swart Piet with a brutal laugh, at
the same time motioning to the men to keep her thus a while.

Now Suzanne looked at the blackening lips and the little form convulsed
in its death struggle, and could bear the sight no more.

“Let her down!” she cried, and, springing from the saddle, for all this
while she had been seated upon her horse, she walked up to Piet,
saying, “Take what you seek, but oh! for your sake I wish to God that
my lips were poison.”

“No, no,” gasped Sihamba, who now was lying half choked upon the
ground.

“That is not our bargain, dear,” said Piet; “it is that you should kiss
me, not I you.”

Again Suzanne shrank back, and again at his signal the men began to
pull upon the rope. Then seeing it, with her face as pale as death, she
learned forward and touched his lips with hers, whereon he seized her
round the middle, and, drawing her to him, covered her with kisses till
even the brutes with him called to him not to push his jest too far and
to let the girl go. This he did, uttering words which I will not
repeat, and so weak was Suzanne with shame that when his arms were
taken from her she fell to the ground, and lay there till the old
Hottentot, her servant, ran to her, cursing and weeping with rage, and
helped her to her feet. For a while she stood saying nothing, only
wiping her face, as though filth had bespattered it, with the sun
_kapje_ which had fallen from her head, and her face was whiter than
the white cap. At last she spoke in a hoarse voice:

“Loose that woman,” she said, “who has cost me my honour.”

They obeyed her, and snatching up her skin rug Sihamba turned and fled
swiftly down the valley. Then Suzanne went to her horse, but before she
mounted it she looked Swart Piet straight in the eyes. At the time he
was following her, begging her not to be angry at a joke, for his
madness was satisfied for a while and had left him. But she only looked
in answer, and there was something so terrible to him in the dark eyes
of this young unfriended girl that he shrank back, seeing in them,
perhaps, the shadow of fate to come. Then Suzanne rode away, and Swart
Piet, having commanded his ruffians to fire the huts of Sihamba, and to
collect her people, goods, and cattle, went away also.

Just at the mouth of the valley something stirred in a bush, causing
the horse to start, so that Suzanne, who was thinking of other things,
slipped from it to the ground. Next moment she saw that it was Sihamba,
who knelt before her, kissing her feet and the hem of her robe.

“Rise,” she said kindly; “what has been cannot be helped, and at least
it was no fault of yours.”

“Nay, Swallow,” said Sihamba, for I think I have said that was the name
which the natives had given to Suzanne from childhood, I believe,
because of the grace of her movements and her habit of running swiftly
hither and thither—“Nay, Swallow, in a way it was my fault.”

“What do you mean, Sihamba?”

“I mean, Swallow, that although I am so small some have thought me
pretty, and the real reason of Black Piet’s hate for me is—but why
should I defile your ears with the tale?”

“They would only match my face if you did,” answered Suzanne grimly,
“but there is no need; I can guess well enough.”

“You can guess, Swallow; then you will see why it was my fault. Yes,
yes, you will see that what I, a black woman, who am less than dirt in
the eyes of your people, would not do to save my own life; you, a white
chieftainess, and the fairest whom we know, have done of your own will
to keep it in me.”

“If the act was good,” answered Suzanne, “may it go to my credit in the
Book of the Great One who made us.”

“It will go to your credit, Swallow,” answered Sihamba with passion,
“both in that Book and in the hearts of all who hear this story, but
most of all in this heart of mine. Oh! listen, lady; sometimes a cloud
comes over me, and in that cloud I who was born a doctoress see visions
of things that are to happen, true visions. Among them I see this: that
many moons hence and far away I shall live to save you as you have
saved me, but between that day and this the cloud of the future is
black to my eyes, black but living.”

“It may be so,” answered Suzanne, “for I have heard that you have the
Sight. And now, farewell; you had best seek out some friends among your
people and hide yourself.”

“My people,” said Sihamba; “then I must seek long, for they are very,
very far away, nor do they desire to see me.”

“Why not?”

“Because as it chances I am by blood their ruler, for I am the only
child of my father’s head-wife. But they would not have me set over
them as chieftainess unless I married a man, and towards marriage I
have no wish, for I am different from other women, both in body and
heart. So having quarrelled with them on this and another matter of
policy I set out to seek my fortune and left them to theirs.”

“Your fortune was not a good one, Sihamba, for it led you to Swart Piet
and the rope.”

“Nay, lady, it led me to the Swallow and freedom; no, not to freedom
but to slavery, for I am your slave, whose life you have bought at a
great price. Now I have nothing left in the world; Swart Piet has taken
my cattle which I earned cow by cow and bred up heifer by heifer, and
save for the wit within my brain and this kaross upon my shoulders, I
have nothing.”

“What, then, will you do, Sihamba?”

“What you do, Swallow, that I shall do, for am I not your slave bought
at a great price? I will go home with you and serve you, yes, to my
life’s end.”

“That would please me well enough, Sihamba, but I do not know how it
would please my father.”

“What pleases you pleases him, Swallow; moreover, I can save my food
twice over by curing his cattle and horses in sickness, for in such
needs I have skill.”

“Well,” she said, “come, and when my father returns we will settle how
it shall be.”




CHAPTER X.
THE OATH OF SIHAMBA


Suzanne came home and told me her story, and when I heard it I was like
a mad woman; indeed, it would have gone ill with Swart Piet’s eyes and
hair if I could have fallen in with him that night.

“Wait till your father returns, girl,” I said.

“Yes, mother,” she answered, “I wait for him—and Ralph.”

“What is to be done with the little doctoress, Sihamba?” I asked,
adding, “I do not like such people about the place.”

“Let her bide also till the men come back, mother,” she answered, “and
then they will see to it. Meanwhile there is an empty hut down by the
cattle kraal where she can live.”

So Sihamba stopped on and became a body servant to Suzanne, the best I
ever saw, though she would do no other work save that of attending to
sick animals.

Ten days afterwards Jan and Ralph returned safe and sound, leaving some
Kaffirs in charge of the cattle in the bush-veldt. Very glad we were to
see them, since, putting everything else aside, it was lonely work for
two women upon the place with no neighbour at hand, and in those days
to be lonely meant to be in danger.

When we were together Jan’s first question to me was:

“Have those Englishmen been here?”

“They have been here,” I answered, “and they have gone away.”

Jan asked me nothing more of the matter, for he did not wish to know
what had passed between us. Only he looked at me queerly, and, as I
think, thought the worse of me afterwards, for he found out that
Suzanne and I had quarrelled about the song I sang in the ears of the
Englishmen, and what that song was he could guess very well. Yes, yes,
although he had been a party to the fraud, in his heart Jan put all the
blame of it upon me, for that is the way of men who are mean, and
always love to say “The woman tempted me,” a vile habit which has come
down to them with their blood.

Meanwhile another talk was passing between Ralph and Suzanne. They had
rushed to meet each other like two separated colts bred in the same
meadow, but when they came together it was different. Ralph put out his
arms to embrace her, but she pushed him back and said, “No, not until
we have spoken together.”

“This is a cold greeting,” said Ralph, amazed and trembling, for he
feared lest Suzanne should have changed her mind as to their marriage.
“What is it that you have to tell me? Speak on, quickly.”

“Two things, Ralph,” she answered, and taking the least of them first,
she plunged straightway into a full account of the coming of the
Englishmen, of all that had passed then, and of her quarrel with me
upon the matter.

“And now, Ralph,” she ended, “you will understand that you have been
cheated of your birthright, and this I think it just that you should
know, so that, if you will, you may change your mind about staying
here, for there is yet time, and follow these Englishmen to wherever it
is they have gone, to claim from them your heritage.”

Ralph laughed and answered, “Why, Sweet, I thought that we had settled
all this long ago. That your mother did not tell the men quite the
truth is possible, but if she played with it, it was for the sake of
all of us and with my leave. Let them go and the fortune with them, for
even if I could come to England and find it there, I should be but as a
wild buck in a sheep kraal, out of place and unhappy. Moreover, we
should be separated, dear, for even if you would all consent, I could
never take you from your own people and the land where you were born.
So now that there is an end to this, once and for ever, let me kiss you
in greeting, Suzanne.”

But she shook her head and denied him, saying, “No, for I have another
tale to tell you, and an uglier—so ugly indeed that after the hearing
of it I doubt much whether you will wish to kiss me any more.”

“Be swift with it then,” he answered, “for you torment me,” and she
began her story.

She told how that, after he had gone away, Swart Piet began to
persecute her; how he had wished to kiss her and she had refused them,
so that he left her with threats. Then she paused suddenly and said:

“And now, before I finish the story, you shall swear an oath to me. You
shall swear that you will not attempt to kill Swart Piet because of
it.”

At first he would swear nothing, for already he was wild with anger
against the man, whereupon she answered that she would tell him
nothing.

At last, when they had wrangled for a while, he asked her in a hoarse
voice, “Say now, Suzanne, have you come to any harm at the hands of
this fellow?”

“No,” she answered, turning her head away. “God be thanked! I have come
to no harm of my body, but of my mind I have come to great harm.”

Now he breathed more freely and said:

“Very well, then, on with your story, for I swear to you that I will
not try to kill Swart Piet because of this offence, whatever it may
be.”

So she went on, setting out everything exactly as it had happened, and
before she had finished Ralph was as one who is brain sick, for he
ground his teeth and stamped upon the earth like an angry bull. At
last, when Suzanne had told him all, she said:

“Now, Ralph, you will understand why I would not let you kiss me before
you had heard my story. It was because I feared that after hearing it
you would not wish to kiss me any more.”

“You talk like a foolish girl,” he answered, taking her into his arms
and embracing her, “and though the insult can only be paid back in
blood, I think no more of it than if some beast had splashed mud into
your face, which you had washed away at the next stream.”

“Ah!” she cried, “you swore that you would not try to kill him for this
offence.”

“Yes, Sweet, I swore, and I will keep my oath. This time I will not try
to kill Swart Piet.”

Then they went into the house, and Ralph spoke to Jan about this
matter, of which indeed I had already told him something. Jan also was
very angry, and said that if he could meet Piet van Vooren it would go
hard with him. Afterwards he added, however, that this Piet was a very
dangerous man, and one whom it might be well to leave alone, especially
as Suzanne had taken no real hurt from him.

Nowadays, and here in Natal, such a villain could be made to answer to
the law, either for attempting the life of the Kaffir, or for the
assault upon the girl, or for both, but in those times it was
different. Then the Transkei had but few white people in it, living far
apart, nor was there any law to speak of; indeed each man did what was
right in his own eyes, according to the good or evil that was in his
heart. Therefore, as Jan said, it was not well to make a deadly enemy
of one who was restrained by the fear of neither God nor man, and who
had great wealth and power, since it might come about that he would
work murder in revenge or raise the Kaffirs on us, as he who had
authority among them could do very easily. Indeed as will be seen he
did both these things, or tried to do them.

When his anger had cooled a little Jan spoke to us in this sense and we
women agreed with him; but Ralph, who was young, fearless, and full of
rage, set his mouth and said nothing.

As for Sihamba Jan wished to send her away, but Suzanne, who had grown
fond of her, begged him that he would not do so, at least until he had
spoken with her. So he ordered one of the slaves to fetch her, and
presently the little woman came, and having saluted him, sat herself
down on the floor of the sitting room after the Kaffir fashion. She was
a strange little creature to see in her fur kaross and bead broidered
girdle, but for a native she was very clean and pretty, with her wise
woman’s face set upon a body that had it been less rounded might almost
have been that of a child. Also she had adorned herself with great
care, not in the cast-off clothes of white people but after her own
manner, for her wavy hair which stood out from her head was powdered
over with that sparkling blue dust which the Kaffir women use, and
round her neck she wore a single string of large blue beads.

At first Jan spoke to her crossly, saying:

“You have brought trouble and disgrace upon my house, Sihamba, and I
wish you to begone from it.”

“It is true,” she answered, “but not of my own will did I bring the
trouble, O Father of Swallow,” for so she always called Jan. Indeed,
for Sihamba, Suzanne was the centre of all things, and thus in her
mouth the three of us has no other names than “Father” or “Mother” or
“Lover” of Swallow.

“That may be so,” answered Jan, “but, doubtless, Black Piet, who hates
you, will follow you here, and then we shall be called upon to defend
you, and there will be more trouble.”

“It is not I whom Black Piet will follow,” she replied, “for he has
stolen all I have, and as my life is safe there is nothing more to get
from me,” and she looked at Suzanne.

“What do you mean, Sihamba? Speak plain words,” said Jan.

“I mean,” she answered, “that it is not I who am now in danger, but my
mistress, the Swallow, for he who has kissed her once will wish to kiss
her again.”

Now at this Ralph cursed the name of Swart Piet aloud, and Jan
answered,

“It is a bullet from my _roer_ that he shall kiss if he tries it, that
I swear.”

“I hope it may be so,” said Sihamba; “yet, Father of Swallow, I pray
you send me not away from her who bought me at a great price, and to
whom my life belongs. Look; I cost you but little to keep, and that
little I can earn by doctoring your horses and cattle, in which art I
have some skill, as you know well. Moreover I have many eyes and ears
that can see and hear things to which yours are deaf and blind, and I
tell you that I think a time will come when I shall be able to do
service to all of you who are of the nest of the Swallow. Now, if she
bids me to go I will go—for am I not her servant to obey?—yet I beseech
you do not so command her.”

Sihamba had risen as she spoke, and now she stood before Jan, her head
thrown back, looking up into his eyes with such strange power that,
though he was great and strong and had no will to it, yet he found
himself forced to look down into hers. More, as he told me afterwards,
he saw many things in the eyes of Sihamba, or it may be that he thought
that he saw them, for Jan was always somewhat superstitious. At least
this is true that more than once during the terrible after years, when
some great event had happened to us he would cry out, “I have seen this
place, or thing, before, I know not where.” Then if I bade him think he
would answer, “Now I remember; it was in the eyes of Sihamba that I saw
it, yonder in the Transkei before Ralph and Suzanne were married.”

Presently she freed his eyes and turned her head, whereon Jan grew pale
and swayed as though he were about to fall. Recovering himself,
however, he said shortly,

“Stay if you will, Sihamba; you are welcome for so long as it shall
please you.”

She lifted her little hand and saluted him, and I noticed that it was
after another fashion to that of the Kaffirs who lived thereabouts,
after the Zulu fashion indeed.

“I hear your words, chief,” she said, “and I stay. Though I be but a
lizard in the thatch, yet the nest of the Swallow shall be my nest, and
in the fangs of the lizard, Sihamba, there is poison and woe to the
hawk of the air or the snake of the grass that would rob this nest
wherein you dwell. Listen now to my oath—you whom she loves. Cold shall
this heart be and stiff this hand, empty shall this head be of thoughts
and these eyes of sight, before shame or death shall touch the swift
wings of yonder Swallow who stained her breast for me. Remember this
always, you whom she loves, that while I live, I, Sihamba Ngenyanga,
Sihamba the walker by moonlight, she shall live, and if she dies I will
die also.”

Then once more she saluted and went, leaving us wondering, for we saw
that this woman was not altogether as other Kaffirs are, and it came
into our minds that in the time of need she would be as is a sharp
spear in the hand of one who is beset with foes.

That night as we lay abed I talked with Jan, saying:

“Husband, I think there are clouds upon our sky, which for many years
has been so blue. Trouble gathers round us because of the beauty of
Suzanne, and I fear Swart Piet, for he is not a man to be stopped by a
trifle. Now, Ralph loves Suzanne and Suzanne loves Ralph, and, though
they are young, they are man and woman full grown, able to keep a house
and bear its burdens. Why then should they not marry with as little
delay as may be, for when once they are wed Van Vooren will cease from
troubling them, knowing his suit to be hopeless?”

“As you will, wife, as you will,” Jan answered, somewhat sharply, “but
I doubt if we shall get rid of our danger thus, for with you I think
that the tide of our lives has turned, and that it sets towards sorrow.
Ay,” he went on, sitting up in the bed, “and I will tell you when it
turned; it turned upon the day that you lied to the Englishmen.”




CHAPTER XI.
A FIGHT AND A SHOT


Early the next morning I sought for Ralph to speak to him on the matter
of his marriage, which, to tell truth, I longed to see safely
accomplished. But I could not find him anywhere, or learn where he had
gone, though one of the slaves told me that they had seen him mount his
horse at the stable.

I went down to the cattle kraal to look if he were there, and as I
returned, I saw Sihamba seated by the door of her hut engaged in
combing her hair and powdering it with the shining blue dust.

“Greeting, Mother of Swallow,” she said. “Whom do you seek?”

“You know well,” I answered.

“Yes, I know well. At the break of dawn he rode over yonder rise.”

“Why?” I asked.

“How can I tell why? But Swart Piet lives out yonder.”

“Had he his gun with him?” I asked again and anxiously.

“No, there was nothing but a sjambock, a very thick sjambock, in his
hand.”

Then I went back to the house with a heavy heart, for I was sure that
Ralph had gone to seek Piet van Vooren, though I said nothing of it to
the others. So it proved indeed. Ralph had sworn to Suzanne that he
would not try to kill Piet, but here his oath ended, and therefore he
felt himself free to beat him if he could find him, for he was
altogether mad with hate of the man. Now he knew that when he was at
home it was Swart Piet’s habit to ride of a morning, accompanied by one
Kaffir only, to visit a certain valley where he kept a large number of
sheep. Thither Ralph made his way, and when he reached the place he saw
that, although it was time for them to be feeding, the sheep were still
in their kraal, baa-ing, stamping, and trying to climb the gate, for
they were hungry to get at the green grass.

“So,” thought Ralph, “Swart Piet means to count the flock out himself
this morning. He will be here presently.”

Half an hour afterwards he came sure enough, and with him the one
Kaffir as was usual. Then the bars of the gate were let down, and the
sheep suffered to escape through them, Swart Piet standing upon one
side and the Kaffir upon the other, to take tale of their number. When
all the sheep were out, and one of the herds had been brought before
him and beaten by the Kaffir, because some lambs were missing, Swart
Piet turned to ride homewards, and in a little gorge near by came face
to face with Ralph, who was waiting for him. Now he started and looked
to see if he could escape, but there was no way of doing it without
shame, so he rode forward and bid Ralph good-day boldly, asking him if
he had ever seen a finer flock of sheep.

“I did not come here to talk of sheep,” answered Ralph, eyeing him.

“Is it of a lamb, then, that you come to talk, Heer Kenzie, a ewe lamb,
the only one of your flock?” sneered Piet, for he had a gun in his hand
and he saw that Ralph had none.

“Aye,” said Ralph, “it is of a white ewe lamb whose fleece has been
soiled by a bastard thief who would have stolen her,” and he looked at
him.

“I understand,” said Piet coldly, for he was a bold man; “and now, Heer
Kenzie, you had best let me ride by.”

“Why should I let you ride by when I have come out to seek you?”

“For a very good reason, Heer Kenzie; because I have a gun in my hand
and you have none, and if you do not clear the road presently it may go
off.”

“A good reason, indeed,” said Ralph, “and one of which I admit the
weight,” and he drew to one side of the path as though to let Piet
pass, which he began to do holding the muzzle of the gun in a line with
the other’s head. Ralph sat upon his horse staring moodily at the
ground, as though he was trying to make up his mind to say something or
other, but all the time he was watching out of the corner of his quick
eye. Just as Swart Piet drew past him, and was shaking the reins to put
his horse to a canter, Ralph slid from the saddle, and springing upon
him like light, he slipped his strong arm round him and dragged him
backwards to the ground over the crupper of the horse. As Piet fell he
stretched out his hands to grip the saddle and save himself, so that
the gun which he carried resting on his knees dropped upon the grass.
Ralph seized it and fired it into the air; then he turned to face his
enemy, who by this time had found his feet.

“Now we are more equally matched, myn Heer van Vooren,” he said, “and
can talk further about that ewe lamb, the only one of the flock. Nay,
you need not look for the Kaffir to help you, for he has run after your
horse, and at the best he will hardly dare to thrust himself between
two angry white men. Come, let us talk, myn Heer.”

Black Piet made no answer, so for a while the two stood facing each
other, and they were a strange pair, as different as the light from the
darkness. Ralph fair-haired, grey-eyed, stern-faced, with thin
nostrils, that quivered like those of a well-bred horse,
narrow-flanked, broad-chested, though somewhat slight of limb and body,
for he was but young, and had scarcely come to a man’s weight, but
lithe and wiry as a tiger. Piet taller and more massive, for he had the
age of him by five years, with round Kaffir eyes, black and cruel,
coarse black hair that grew low upon his brow, full red lips, the lower
drooping so that the large white teeth and a line of gums could be seen
within. Great-limbed he was also, firm-footed and bull-strengthed,
showing in his face the cruelty and the cunning of a black race,
mingled with the mind and mastery of the white; an evil and a terrible
man, knowing no lord save his own passions, and no religion but black
witchcraft and vile superstition; a foe to be feared indeed, but one
who loved better to stab in the dark than to strike in the open day.

“Well, myn Heer van Vooren,” mocked Ralph, “you could fling your arms
about a helpless girl and put her to shame before the eyes of men, now
do the same by me if you can,” and he took one step towards him.

“What is this monkey’s chatter?” asked Piet, in his slow voice. “Is it
because I gave the girl a kiss that you would fix a quarrel upon me?
Have you not done as much yourself many times, and for a less stake
than the life of one who has been doomed to die?”

“If I have kissed her,” answered Ralph, “it is with her consent, and
because she will be my wife; but you worked upon her pity to put her to
shame and now you shall pay the price of it. Do you see that whip?” and
he nodded toward the sjambock that was lying on the grass. “Let him who
proves the best man use it upon the other.”

“Will be your wife——” sneered Piet, “the wife of the English castaway!
She might have been, but now she never shall, unless she cares to wed a
carcase cut into rimpis. You want a flogging, and you shall have it,
yes, to the death, but Suzanne shall be—not your wife but——”

He got no further, for at that moment Ralph sprang at him like a wild
cat, stopping his foul mouth with a fearful blow upon the lips. Then
there followed a dreadful struggle between these two. Black Piet rushed
again and again, striving to clasp his antagonist in his great arms and
crush him, whereas Ralph, who, like all Englishmen, loved to use his
fists, and knew that he was no match for Piet in strength, sought to
avoid him and plant blow after blow upon his face and body. This,
indeed, he did with such success that soon the Boer was covered with
blood and bruises. Again and again he charged at him, roaring with pain
and rage, and again and again Ralph first struck and then slipped to
one side.

At length Piet’s turn came, for Ralph in leaping back caught his foot
against a stone and stumbled, and before he could recover himself the
iron arms were round his middle, and they were wrestling for the
mastery.

Still, at the first it was Ralph who had the best of it, for he was
skilful at the game, and before Swart Piet could put out his full
strength he tripped him so that he fell heavily upon his back, Ralph
still locked in his arms. But he could not keep him there, for the Boer
was the stronger; moreover, as they fought they had worked their way up
the steep side of the kloof so that the ground was against him. Thus it
came about that soon they began to roll down hill fixed to each other
as though by ropes, and gathering speed at every turn. Doubtless, the
end of this would have been Ralph’s defeat, and perhaps his death, for
I think that, furious as he was, Black Piet would certainly have killed
him had he found himself the master. But it chanced that his hand was
stayed, and thus. Near the bottom of the slope lay a sharp stone, and
as they rolled in their fierce struggle, Piet’s head struck against
this stone so that for a few moments he was rendered helpless. Feeling
the grip of his arms loosen, Ralph freed himself, and running to the
sjambock snatched it from the ground. Now Piet sat up and stared at him
stupidly, but he made no effort to renew the fight, whereon Ralph
gasped:

“I promised you a flogging, but since it is chance that has conquered
you more than I, I will take no advantage of it, save this——” and he
struck him once or twice across the face with the whip, but not so as
to draw blood, and added, “Now, at least, I am free from a certain
promise that I made—that I would not kill you—and should you attempt
further harm or insult towards Suzanne Botmar, kill you I will, Piet
van Vooren.”

At first Swart Piet did not seem to feel the blows, but presently he
awoke, as it were, and touched his cheeks where the sjambock had struck
him as though to assure himself that he was not dreaming some evil
dream. Then he spoke in a hollow, unnatural voice. “You have won for
this time, Ralph Kenzie,” he said, “or, rather, Fate fighting for you
has won. But it would have been better for you and your dear also, if
you had never struck those blows, for I tell you, Ralph Kenzie, that as
your whip touched me something broke in my brain, and now I think that
I am mad.”

“Mad or bad, it is all one to me,” replied Ralph. “You have had your
warning, and you had best keep sane enough to remember it.” Then
turning he went to his horse, which was standing close by, mounted and
rode away, the other answering him nothing.

Still Ralph did not get home without another adventure, for when he had
gone a little way he came to a stream that ran from a hillside which
was thick with trees, and here he stopped to doctor his hurts and
bruises, since he did not wish to appear at the house covered with
blood. Now this was a foolish enough thing to do, seeing the sort of
man with whom he had to deal, and that there was bush where anyone
could hide to within a hundred and twenty yards of his washing place.
So it proved indeed, for just as Ralph had mounted his horse and was
about to ride on, he felt a sharp stinging pain across his shoulders,
as though someone had hit him on the back with a stick, and heard the
sound of a gunshot fired from the cover of the bush, for there above
the green leaves hung a cloud of smoke.

“That is Swart Piet who has crept round to cut me off,” Ralph thought
to himself, and for a moment was minded to ride to the smoke to seek
him. Then he remembered that he had no gun, and that that of his enemy
might be loaded again before he found him, and judged it wisest to
canter into the open plain and so homewards. Of the hurt which he had
taken from the bullet he thought little, yet when he reached the house
it was seen that his escape had been narrow indeed, for the great ball
had cut through his clothes beneath his shoulders, so that they hung
down leaving his back naked. Also it had furrowed the skin, causing the
blood to flow copiously, and making so horrible a sight of him that
Suzanne nearly fainted when she saw it. For my part I made certain that
the lad was shot through the body, although, as it turned out, in a
week, except for some soreness he was as well as ever.

Now this matter caused no little stir among us, and Jan was so angry
that, without saying a word to anyone, he mounted his horse and, taking
some armed servants with him, set out to seek Black Piet, but not to
find him, for the man had gone, nobody knew whither. Indeed this was as
well, or so we thought at the time, for though Jan is slow to move,
when once he is moved he is a very angry man, and I am sure that if he
had met Piet van Vooren that day the grasses would have been richer by
the blood of one or both of them. But he did not meet him and so the
thing passed over, for afterwards we remembered that Ralph had been the
aggressor, since no one would take count of this story of the kissing
of a girl, and also that there was no proof at all that it was Piet who
had attempted his life, as that shot might have been fired by anyone.

Now from this day forward Suzanne went in terror of Swart Piet, and
whenever Ralph rode, he rode armed, for though it was said that he had
gone on one of his long journeys trading among the Kaffirs, both of
them guessed that they had not seen the last of Van Vooren. Jan and I
were afraid also, for we knew the terrible nature of the man and of his
father before him, and that they came of a family which never forgot a
quarrel or left a desire ungratified.

About fourteen days after Ralph had been shot at and wounded, a Kaffir
brought a letter for Jan, which, on being opened, proved to have been
written by Swart Piet, or on his behalf, since his name was set at the
bottom of it. It read thus:—

“To the Heer Jan Botmar,

“Well-beloved Heer, this is to tell you that your daughter, Suzanne,
holds my heart, and that I desire to make her my wife. As it is not
convenient for me to come to see you at present, I write to ask you
that you will consent to our betrothal. I will make a rich woman of her
as I can easily satisfy you, and you will find it better to have me as
a dear son-in-law and friend than as a stranger and an enemy, for I am
a good friend and a bad enemy. I know there has been some talk of love
between Suzanne and the English foundling at your place; but I can
overlook that, although you may tell the lad that if he is impertinent
to me again as he was the other day, he will not for the second time
get off with a whipping only. Be so good as to give your answer to the
bearer, who will pass it on to those that can find me, for I am
travelling about on business, and do not know where I shall be from day
to day. Give also my love to Suzanne, your daughter, and tell her that
I think often of the time when she shall be my wife.

“I am, well-beloved Heer, your friend,

“Piet van Vooren.”

Now, when Ralph had finished reading this letter aloud, for it had been
given to him as the best scholar among us, you might have thought there
were four crazy people in the room, so great was our rage. Jan and
Ralph said little indeed, although they looked white and strange with
anger, and Suzanne not over much, for it was I who talked for all of
them.

“What is your answer, girl?” asked her father presently with an angry
laugh.

“Tell the Heer Piet van Vooren,” she replied, smiling faintly, “that if
ever his lips should touch my face again it will be only when that face
is cold in death. Oh! Ralph,” she cried, turning to him suddenly and
laying her hand upon his breast, “it may be that this man will bring
trouble and separation on us; indeed, my heart warns me of it, but,
whatever chances, remember my words, dead I may be, but faithful I
shall be—yes, to death and through death.”

“Son, take pen and write,” said Jan before Ralph could answer. So Ralph
wrote down these words as Jan told them to him:

“Piet van Vooren,

“Sooner would I lay my only child out for burial in the grave than lead
her to the house of a coloured man, a consorter with witch-doctors and
black women and a would-be murderer. That is my answer, and I add this
to it. Set no foot within a mile of my house, for here we shoot
straighter than you do, and if we find you on this place, by the help
of God we will put a bullet through your carcase.”

At the foot of this writing, which he would not suffer to be altered,
Jan printed his name in big letters; then he went out to seek the
messenger, whom he found talking to Sihamba, and having given him the
paper bade him begone swiftly to wherever it was he came from. The man,
who was a strong red-coloured savage, marked with a white scar across
the left cheek, and naked except for his moocha and the kaross rolled
up upon his shoulders, took the letter, hid it in his bundle, and went.

Jan also turned to go, but I who had followed him and was watching him,
although he did not know it, saw him hesitate and stop.

“Sihamba,” he said, “why were you talking to that man?”

“Because it is my business to know of things, Father of Swallow, and I
wished to learn whence he came.”

“Did you tell you then?”

“Not altogether, for someone whom he fears has laid a weight upon his
tongue, but I learned that he lives at a kraal far away in the
mountains, and that this kraal is owned by a white man who keeps wives
and cattle at it, although he is not there himself just now. The rest I
hope to hear when Swart Piet sends him back again, for I have given the
man a medicine to cure his child, who is sick, and he will be grateful
to me.”

“How do you know that Swart Piet sent the man?” asked Jan.

She laughed and said: “Surely that was easy to guess; it is my business
to twine little threads into a rope.”

Again he turned to go and again came back to speak to her.

“Sihamba,” he said, “I have seen you talking to that man before. I
remember the scar upon his face.”

“The scar upon his face you may remember,” she answered, “but you have
not seen us talking together, for until this hour we never met.”

“I can swear it,” he said angrily. “I remember the straw hat, the shape
of the man’s bundle, the line where the shadow fell upon his foot, and
the tic-bird that came and sat near you. I remember it all.”

“Surely, Father of Swallow,” Sihamba replied, eyeing him oddly, “you
talk of what you have just seen.”

“No, no,” he said, “I saw it years ago.”

“Where?” she asked, staring at him.

He started and uttered some quick words. “I know now,” he said. “I saw
it in your eyes the other day.”

“Yes,” she answered quietly, “I think that, if anywhere, you saw it in
my eyes, since the coming of this messenger is the first of all the
great things that are to happen to the Swallow and to those who live in
her nest. I do not know the things; still, it may happen that another
who has Vision may see them in the glass of my eyes.”




CHAPTER XII.
WHAT THE COW SHOWED ZINTI


Twelve days passed, and one morning when I went out to feed the
chickens, I saw the red Kaffir with the scar on his face seated beyond
the _stoep_ taking snuff.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A letter,” he answered, giving me a paper.

I took it into the house, where the others were gathered for breakfast,
and as before Ralph read it. It was to this effect:

“Well-beloved Heer Botmar,—I have received your honoured letter, and I
think that the unchristian spirit which it shows cannot be pleasing to
our Lord. Still, as I seek peace and not war, I take no offence, nor
shall I come near your place to provoke the shedding of the blood of
men. I love your daughter, but if she rejects me for another, I have
nothing more to say, except that I hope she may be happy in the life
she has chosen. For me, I am leaving this part of the country, and if
you, Heer Botmar, like to buy my farm, I shall be happy to sell it to
you at a fair price; or perhaps the Heer Kenzie will buy it to live on
after he is married; if so, he can write to me by this messenger.
Farewell.”

Now, when they heard this letter, the others looked more happy; but for
my part I shook my head, seeing guile in it, since the tone of it was
too humble for Swart Piet. There was no answer to it, and the messenger
went away, but not, as I learned, before he had seen Sihamba. It seems
that the medicine which she gave him had cured his child, for which he
was so grateful that he drove her down a cow in payment, a fine beast,
but very wild, for handling was strange to it; moreover, it had been
but just separated from its calf. Still, although she questioned him
closely, the man would tell Sihamba but little of the place where he
lived, and nothing of the road to it.

Here I will stop to show how great was the cunning of this woman, and
yet how simple the means whereby she obtained the most of her
knowledge. She desired to learn about this hiding-place, since she was
sure that it was one of the secret haunts of Swart Piet, but when she
asked him the messenger grew deaf and blind, and she could find no one
else who knew anything of the matter. Still she was certain that the
cow which had been brought to her would show the way to its home, if
there were anybody to follow it thither and make report of the path.

Now when Sihamba had been robbed and sentenced to death by Swart Piet,
the most of her servants and people who lived with her had been taken
by him as slaves. Still two or three had escaped, either then or
afterwards, and settled about in the neighbourhood of the farm where
they knew that their mistress dwelt. From among these people, who still
did her service, she chose a young man named Zinti, who, although he
was supposed to be stupid, was still very clever about many things,
especially the remembering of any path that he had once trodden, and of
every _kopje_, stream, or pan by which it could be traced. This youth
she bade to herd the cow which had been given her, telling him to
follow it whithersoever it should wander, even if it led him a ten
days’ journey, and when he saw that it had reached home, to return
himself without being seen, and to give to her an exact report of the
road which it had travelled.

Now all happened as Sihamba expected, for on the first day that the cow
was turned out, watched by the lad, who was provided with food and a
blanket, so soon as it had filled itself it started straight over the
hills, running at times, and at times stopping to graze, till night
came on. Then it lay down for a while and its herd beside it, for he
had tied his wrist to its tail with a rimpi lest it should escape in
the darkness.

At the first breaking of the light the cow rose, filled itself with
grass and started forward on its homeward path, followed by Zinti. For
three days they travelled thus, the herd milking the cow from time to
time when its udder was full. On the evening of the third day, however,
the beast would not lie down, but walked forward all night, lowing now
and again, by which Zinti, who found it difficult to keep it in sight
because of the darkness, guessed that it must be near its home. So it
proved indeed, for when the sun rose Zinti saw a kraal before him
hidden away in a secret valley of the mountains over which they had
been travelling. Still following the cow, though at a distance, he
moved down towards the kraal and hid himself in a patch of bush.
Presently the cattle were let out to graze, and the cow rushed to them
lowing loudly, till a certain calf came to it, which it made much of
and suckled, for it was its own calf.

Now Zinti’s errand was done, but still he lay hid in the bush a while,
thinking that he might learn some more, and lying thus he fell asleep,
for he was weary with travel. When he woke the sun was high, and he
heard women talking to each other close by him, as they laboured at
their task of cutting wands, such as are used for the making of huts.
He rose to run away, then thought better of it and sat down again,
remembering that should he be found, it would be easy to tell them that
he was a wanderer who had lost his path. Presently one of the women
asked:

“For whom does Bull-Head build this fine new hut in the secret krantz
yonder?”

Now Zinti opened his ears wide, for he knew that this was the name
which the natives had given to Swart Piet, taking it from his round
head and fierce eye, according to their custom when they note any
peculiarity in a man.

“I do not know,” answered a second woman, who was young and very
pretty, “unless he means to bring another wife here; if so, she must be
a chief’s daughter, since men do not build such huts for girls of
common blood.”

“Perhaps,” said the other; “but then I think that he has stolen her
from her father without payment; else he would not wish to hide her
away in the secret krantz. Well, let her come, for we women must work
hard here where there are so few men, and many hoes clean a field
quickly.”

“For my part I think there are enough of us already,” said the young
girl, looking troubled, for she was Swart Piet’s last Kaffir wife, and
did not desire to be supplanted by a new favourite. “But be silent, I
hear Bull-Head coming on his horse,” and she began to work very hard at
cutting the wands.

A few minutes later Zinti saw Swart Piet himself ride up to the women,
who saluted him, calling him “Chief” and “Husband.”

“You are idle,” he said, eyeing them angrily.

“These wands are tough to cut, husband,” murmured the young woman in
excuse.

“Still you must cut them quicker, girl,” he answered, “if you would not
learn how one of them feels upon your back. It will go hard with all of
you if the big hut is not finished in seven days from now.”

“We will do our best,” said the girl, “but who is to dwell in the hut
when it is done?”

“Not you, be sure of that,” he answered, roughly, “nor any black woman,
for I am weary of you, one and all. Listen: I go to-morrow with my
servants to fetch a chieftainess, a white lady, to rule over you, but
if any of you speak a word of her presence here you will pay for it,
for I shall turn you away to starve. Do you understand?”

“We hear you, husband,” they replied, somewhat sullenly, for now they
understood that this new wife would be a mistress, and not a sister to
them.

“Then be careful that you do not forget my words, and—hearken—so soon
as you have cut a full load of hut-poles, let two of you carry them up
to the krantz yonder, where they are wanted, but be careful that no one
sees you going in or coming out.”

“We hear you, husband,” they said again, whereon Swart Piet turned and
rode away.

Now, although Zinti was said to be foolish, chiefly, as I think,
because he could not, or would not, work, yet in many ways he was
cleverer than most Kaffirs, and especially always did he desire to see
new places, the more so if they chanced to be secret places. Therefore,
when he heard Swart Piet command the women to carry the rods for the
hidden krantz, he determined that he would follow them, and this he did
so skilfully that they neither heard nor saw him. At first he wondered
whither they could be going, for they walked straight to the foot of
what seemed to be an unclimbable wall of rock more than a hundred feet
high. On the face of this rock, however, shrubs grew here and there
like the bristles on the back of a hog, and having first glanced round
to see that no one was watching them, the women climbed to one of these
shrubs, which was rooted in the cliff about the height of a man above
the level of the ground, and vanished so quickly that Zinti, who was
watching, rubbed his eyes in wonder. After waiting a while, however, he
followed in their steps to find that behind the shrub was a narrow
cleft or crack such as are often to be seen in cliffs, and that down
this cleft ran a pathway which twisted and turned in the rock, growing
broader as it went, till at last it ended in the hidden krantz. This
krantz was a very beautiful spot about three morgen, or six English
acres, in extent, and walled all round with impassable cliffs. Down the
face of one of these cliffs fell a waterfall forming a deep pool, out
of which a stream ran, and on the banks of this stream the new hut was
being built in such a position that the heat of the sun could strike it
but little.

While he was taking note of these and other things Zinti saw some of
those who were working at the hut leave it and start to walk towards
the cleft. So having learnt everything that he could he thought it was
time to go, and slipped away back to the bush, and thence homewards by
the road which the cow had shown him.

Now, it chanced that as he went Zinti pierced his foot with a large
thorn so that he was only able to travel slowly. On the fifth night of
his journey he limped into a wood to sleep, which wood grew not much
more than two hours on horseback from our farm. When he had been asleep
for some hours he woke up, for all his food was done, and he could not
rest well because of his hunger, and was astonished to see the light of
a fire among the trees at some distance from him. Towards this fire he
crept, thinking that there were herds or travellers who would give him
food, but when he came to it he did not ask for any, since the first
thing he saw was Swart Piet himself walking up and down in front of the
fire, while at some distance from it lay a number of his men asleep in
their karosses. Presently another man appeared slipping through the
tree trunks, and coming to Swart Piet saluted him.

“Tell me what you have found out,” he said.

“This, Baas,” answered the man; “I went down to Heer Botmar’s place and
begged a bowlful of meal there, pretending that I was a stranger on a
journey to court a girl at a distant kraal. The slaves gave me meal and
some flesh with it, and I learned in talk with them that the Heer
Botmar, his vrouw, his daughter Suzanne and the young Englishman, Heer
Kenzie, all rode away yesterday to the christening party of the
first-born of the Heer Roozen, who lives about five hours on horseback
to the north yonder. I learned also that it is arranged for them to
leave the Heer Roozen to-morrow at dawn, and to travel homewards by the
Tiger’s Nek, in which they will off-saddle about two hours before
mid-day, for I forgot to say that they have two servants with them to
see to their horses.”

“That makes six in all,” said Swart Piet, “of whom two are women,
whereas we are twenty. Yes, it is very good, nothing could be better,
for I know the off-saddling place by the stream in Tiger’s Nek, and it
is a nice place for men to hide behind the rocks and trees. Listen now
for the plan, and be sure you understand it. When these people are
off-saddled and eating their food, you Kaffirs will fall on them—with
the spear and the kerry alone, mind—and they will come to their end.”

“Does the master mean that we are to kill them?” asked the man
doubtfully.

“Yes,” answered Swart Piet, with some hesitation. “I do not want to
kill them indeed, but I see no other way, except as regards the girl,
of course, who must be saved. These people are to be attacked and
robbed by Kaffirs, for it must never be known that I had a hand in it,
and you brutes of Kaffirs always kill. Therefore, they must die, alas!
especially the Englishman, though so far as I am concerned I should be
glad to spare the others if I could, but it cannot be done without
throwing suspicion upon me. As for the girl, if she is harmed the lives
of all of you pay for it. You will throw a kaross over her head, and
bring her to the place which I will tell you of to-morrow, where I
shall come upon you with some men and seem to rescue her. Do you
understand, and do you think the plan good?”

“I understand, and I think the plan good—for you—and yet, Baas, there
is one thing that I have not told you which may mar it.”

“What is it?”

“This: When I was down there at the Heer Botmar’s place, I saw the
witch-doctoress Sihamba, who has a hut upon the farm. I was some way
off, but I think that she recognised me, as she might well do seeing
that it was I who set the rope about her neck when you wished to hang
her. Now if she did know me all your plans may be in vain, for that
woman has the Sight and she will guess them. Even when the cord was
round her she laughed at me and told me that I should die soon, but
that she would live for years, and therefore I fear her more than
anyone living.”

“She laughed at you, did she?” said Swart Piet; “well, I laugh at her,
for neither she nor anyone who breathes shall stand between me and this
girl, who has preferred the suit of another man to mine.”

“Ah, master!” said the Kaffir, with admiration, “you are a great one,
for when a fruit pleases you, you do not wait for it to drop into your
lap, you pluck it.”

“Yes,” said Swart Piet, striking his breast with pride, “if I desire a
fruit I pluck it as my father did before me. But now go you and sleep,
for to-morrow you will need all your wit and strength.”

When the herd Zinti had heard this talk he crept away, heading straight
for the farm, but his foot was so bad, and he was so weak from want of
food, that he could only travel at the pace of a lame ox, now hopping
upon one leg and now crawling upon his knees. In this fashion it was
that at length, about half-past eight in the morning, he reached the
house, or rather the hut of Sihamba, for she had sent him out, and
therefore to her, after the Kaffir fashion, he went to make report.
Now, when he came to Sihamba, he greeted her and asked for a little
food, which she gave him. Then he began to tell his story, beginning as
natives do at the first of it, which in his case were all the
wanderings of the cow which he had followed, so that although she
hurried him much, many minutes went by before he came to that part of
the tale which told of what he had heard in the wood some eight hours
before.

So soon as he began to speak of this, Sihamba stopped him, and calling
to a man who lingered near, she bade him bring to her Jan’s famous
young horse, the roan _schimmel_, bridled but not saddled. Now this
horse was the finest in the whole district, for his sire was the famous
stallion which the Government imported from England, where it won all
the races, and his dam the swiftest and most enduring mare in the
breeding herds at the Paarl. What Jan gave for him as a yearling I
never learned, because he was afraid to tell me; but I know that we
were short of money for two years after he bought him. Yet in the end
that _schimmel_ proved the cheapest thing for which ever a man paid
gold.

Well, the Kaffir hesitated, for, as might be guessed, Jan was very
proud of this horse, and none rode it save himself, but Sihamba sprang
up and spoke to him so fiercely that at last he obeyed her, since,
although she was small in stature, all feared the magic of Sihamba, and
would do her bidding. Nor had he far to go, for the _schimmel_ did not
run wild upon the veldt, but was fed and kept in a stable, where a
slave groomed him every morning. Thus it came about that before Zinti
had finished his tale, the horse was standing before Sihamba bridled
but not saddled, arching his neck and striking the ground with his
hoof, for he was proud and full of corn and eager to be away.

“Oh! fool,” said Sihamba to Zinti, “why did not you begin with this
part of your story? Now, to save five from death and one from
dishonour, there is but a short hour left and twenty long miles to
cover in it. Ho! man, help me to mount this horse.”

The slave put down his hand, and setting her foot in it, the little
woman sprang on to the back of the great stallion, which knew and loved
her as a dog might do, for she had tended it day and night when it was
ill from the sickness we call “thick head,” and without doubt had saved
its life by her skill. Then, gripping its shoulders with her knees,
Sihamba shook the reins and called aloud to the _schimmel_, waving the
black rod she always carried in her hand, so that the fiery beast,
having plunged once, leapt away like an antelope, and in another minute
was nothing but a speck racing towards the mountains.




CHAPTER XIII.
THE SCHIMMEL’S FIRST RACE


So hard did Sihamba ride, and so swift and untiring proved the horse,
to whose strength her light weight was as nothing, that, the veldt over
which they travelled being flat and free from stones or holes, she
reached the mouth of Tiger’s Nek, twenty miles away, in very few
minutes over the hour of time. But the Nek itself was a mile or more in
length, and for aught she knew we might already be taken in Black
Piet’s trap, and she but riding to share our fate. Still she did not
stay, but though it panted like a blacksmith’s bellows, and its feet
stumbled with weariness among the stones of the Nek, she urged on the
_schimmel_ at a gallop. Now she turned the corner, and the off-saddling
place was before her. Swiftly and fearfully Sihamba glanced around, but
seeing no signs of us, she uttered a cry of joy and shook the reins,
for she knew that she had not ridden in vain. Then a voice from the
rocks called out:

“It is the witch-doctoress, Sihamba, who rides to warn them. Kill her
swiftly.” With the voice came a sound of guns and of bullets screaming
past her, one of which shattered the wand she carried in her hand,
numbing her arm. Nor was that all, for men sprang up across the further
end of the off-saddling place, where the path was narrow, to bar her
way, and they held spears in their hands. But Sihamba never heeded the
men or the spears, for she rode straight at them and through them, and
so soon was she gone that, although six or seven assegais were hurled
at her, only one of them struck the horse, wounding it slightly in the
shoulder.

A few minutes later, three perhaps, or five, just as the four of us
with our Kaffir servants were riding quietly up to the mouth of the
Nek, we saw a great horse thundering towards us, black with sweat and
flecked with foam, its shoulder bloody, its eyes staring, its red
nostrils agape, and perched upon its bare back a little woman who
swayed from side to side as though with weariness, holding in her hand
a shattered wand.

“Allemachter!” cried Jan. “It is Sihamba, and the witch rides my roan
_schimmel_!”

By this time Sihamba herself was upon us. “Back,” she screamed as she
came, “death waits you in the pass;” whereon, compelled to it as it
were by the weight of the words and the face of her who spoke them, we
turned our horses’ heads and galloped after the _schimmel_ for the half
of a mile or more till we were safe in the open veldt.

Then of a sudden the horse stopped, whether of its own accord or
because its rider pulled upon the reins I know not. At the least it
stood there trembling like a reed and Sihamba lay upon its back
clinging to the mane, and as she lay I saw blood running down her legs,
for her skin was chafed to the flesh beneath. Ralph sprang to her and
lifted her to the ground and Suzanne made her take a draught of peach
brandy from Jan’s flask, which brought the life to her face again.

“Now,” she said, “if you have it to spare, give the _schimmel_ yonder a
drink of that stuff, for he has saved all your lives and I think he
needs it.”

“That is a wise word,” said Jan, and he bade Ralph and the Kaffirs pour
the rest of the spirit down the horse’s throat, which they did,
thereby, as I believe, saving its life, for until it had swallowed it
the beast looked as though its heart were about to burst.

“Now,” said Jan, “why do you ride my best horse to death in this
fashion?”

“Have I not told you, father of Swallow,” she answered, “that it was to
save you from death? But a few minutes over an hour ago, fifteen
perhaps, a word was spoken to me at your stead yonder and now I am
here, seven leagues away, having ridden faster than I wish to ride
again, or than any other horse in this country can travel with a man
upon its back.”

“To save us from death! What death?” asked Jan astounded.

“Death at the hands of Swart Piet and his Kaffir tribesmen for the
three of you and the two slaves, and for the fourth, the lady Swallow
there, a love which she does not seek, the love of the murderer of her
father, her mother, and her chosen.”

Now we stared at each other; only Suzanne ran to Sihamba, and putting
her arms about her, she kissed her.

“Nay,” said the little woman smiling, “nay, Swallow, I do but repay to
you one-hundredth part of my debt, and all the rest is owing still.”

Then she told her story in few words, and when it was done, having
first looked to see that Swart Piet and his men were not coming, at the
bidding of Jan we all knelt down upon the veldt and thanked the
Almighty for our deliverance. Only Sihamba did not kneel, for she was a
heathen, and worshipped no one unless it were Suzanne.

“You should pray to the horse, too,” she said, “for had it not been for
his legs, I could never have reached you in time.”

“Peace, Sihamba,” I answered, “it is God who made the horse’s legs, as
God put it into your mind to use them;” but I said no more, though at
any other time I should have rated her well for her heathen folly.

Then we consulted together as to what was to be done and decided to
make our way to the house by a longer path which ran through the open
veldt, since we were sure that there, where is no cover, Swart Piet
would not attack us. Ralph, it is true, was for going into the Nek and
attacking him, but, as Jan showed him, such an act would be madness,
for they were many, and we were few; moreover, they could have picked
us off from behind the shelter of the rocks. So we settled to leave him
alone, and that night came home safely, though not without trouble, for
we carried Sihamba the most of the way, and after he grew stiff the
_schimmel_ could only travel at a walking pace. Very soon that horse
recovered, however, for he was a good feeder, and lived to do still
greater service, although for a while his legs were somewhat puffed and
had to be poulticed with cabbage leaves.

Now Jan and Ralph were mad against Swart Piet, and would have brought
him to justice. But this road of justice was full of stones and
mud-holes, since the nearest land-drost, as we call a magistrate, lived
a hundred miles off, and it would not have been easy to persuade Piet
to appear and argue the case before him. Moreover, here again we had no
evidence against the man except that of a simple black fellow, who
would never have been believed, for, in fact, no attack was made upon
us, while that upon Sihamba might very well have been the work of some
of the low Kaffirs that haunt the kloofs, runaway slaves, and other
rascals who desired to steal the fine horse upon which she rode. Also
we learned that our enemy, acting through some agent, had sold his farm
to a stranger for a small sum of money, giving it out that he had no
need of the land, as he was leaving this part of the country.

But if we saw Piet’s face no more, we could still feel the weight of
his hand, since from that time forward we began to suffer from thefts
of cattle and other troubles with the natives, which—so Sihamba learned
in her underground fashion—were instigated by him, working through his
savage tools, while he himself lay hidden far away and in safety. Also
he did us another ill turn—for it was proved that his money was at the
bottom of it—by causing Ralph to be commandeered to serve on some
distant Kaffir expedition, out of which trouble we were obliged to buy
him, and at no small cost.

All these matters weighed upon us much, so much, indeed, that I wished
Jan to trek from the Transkei and found a new home; but he would not,
for he loved the place which he had built up brick by brick, and
planted tree by tree; nor would he consent to be driven out of it
through fear of the wicked practices of Swart Piet. To one thing he did
consent, however, and it was that Ralph and Suzanne should be married
as soon as possible, for he saw that until they were man and wife there
would be little peace for any of us. When they were spoken to on the
matter, neither of them had anything to say against this plan; indeed,
I believe that in their hearts, for the first and last time in their
lives, they blessed the name of Black Piet, whose evil-doing, as they
thought, was hurrying on their happiness.

Now it was settled that the matter of this marriage should be kept
secret for fear it should come to the ears of Van Vooren through his
spies, and stir him up to make a last attempt to steal away Suzanne.
And, indeed, it did come to his ears, though how to this hour I do not
know, unless, in spite of our warning, the _predicant_ who was to
perform the ceremony, a good and easy man but one who loved gossip,
blabbed of it on his journey to the farm, for he had a two days’ ride
to reach it.

It was the wish of all of us that we should continue to live together
after the marriage of Ralph and Suzanne, though not beneath the same
roof. Indeed, there would have been no room for another married pair in
that house, especially if children came to them, nor did I wish to
share the rule of a dwelling with my own daughter after she had taken a
husband, for such arrangements often end in bitterness and quarrels.
Therefore Jan determined to build them a new house in a convenient spot
not far away, and it was agreed that during the two or three months
while this house was building Ralph and his wife should pay a visit to
a cousin of mine, who owned a very fine farm on the outskirts of the
dorp which we used to visit from time to time to partake of
_Nachtmahl_[*]. This seemed wise to us for several reasons beyond that
of the building of the new house. It is always best that young people
should begin their married life alone, as by nature they wish to do,
and not under the eyes of those who have bred and nurtured them, for
thus face to face, with none to turn to, they grow more quickly
accustomed to each other’s faults and weaknesses, which, perhaps, they
have not learned or taken count of before.

[*] That is, Holy Communion.


Moreover, in the case of Ralph and Suzanne we thought it safer that
they should be absent for a while from their own district and the
neighbourhood of Swart Piet, living in a peopled place where they could
not be molested, although, not knowing the wickedness of his heart, we
did not believe it possible that he _would_ molest them when once they
were married. Indeed, there was some talk of their going to the dorp
for the wedding, and I wish that they had done so, for then much
trouble might have been spared to us. But their minds were set against
this plan, for they desired to be married where they had met and lived
so long, so we did not gainsay them.

At length came the eve of the wedding day and with it the _predicant_,
who arrived hungry and thirsty but running over with smiles and
blessings. That night we all supped together and were full of joy, nor
were Ralph and Suzanne the least joyous of us, though they said little,
but sat gazing at each other across the table as though the moon had
struck them.

Before I went to bed I had occasion to go out of the house for I
remembered that some linen which Suzanne was to take with her had been
left drying upon bushes after the wash, and I feared that if it
remained there the Kaffir women might steal it. This linen was spread
at a little distance from the house, near the huts where Sihamba lived,
but I took no lantern with me, for the moon was bright.

As I drew near the spot I thought that I heard a sound of chanting
which seemed to come from a little circle of mimosa trees that grew a
spear’s throw to my left, of chanting very low and sweet. Wondering who
it was that sung thus, and why she sang—for the voice was that of a
woman—I crept to the nearest of the trees, keeping in its shadow, and
peeped through the branches into the grassy space beyond, to perceive
Sihamba crouched in the centre of the circle. She was seated upon a low
stone in such fashion that her head and face shone strangely in the
moonlight, while her body was hidden in the shadow. Before her, placed
upon another stone, stood a large wooden bowl, such as the Kaffirs cut
out of the trunk of a tree, spending a month of labour, or more, upon
the task, and into this bowl, which I could see was filled with water,
for it reflected the moonrays, she was gazing earnestly, and, as she
gazed, chanting that low, melancholy song whereof I could not
understand the meaning.

Presently Sihamba ceased her singing, and turning from the bowl as
though she had seen in it something that frightened her, she covered
her eyes with her hands and groaned aloud, muttering words in which the
name of Suzanne was mixed up, or of Swallow, as she called her. Now I
guessed that Sihamba was practising that magic of which she was said to
be so great a mistress, although she denied always that she knew
anything of the art. At first I made up my mind to call to her to cease
from such wickedness, which, as the Holy Book tells us, is a sin in the
eyes of the Lord, and a cause of damnation to those who practise it.
But I was curious and longed greatly in my heart to know what it was
that Sihamba saw in the bowl, and what it had to do with my daughter
Suzanne. So I changed my mind, thereby making myself a partaker of the
sin, and coming forward said instead:

“What is it that you do here by night, in this solitary place,
Sihamba?”

Now although, as I suppose, she had neither seen nor heard me, for I
came up from behind her, Sihamba did not start or cry out as any other
woman would have done; she did not even turn to look at me as she
answered in a clear and steady voice:

“Now while she is still a girl I read the fate of Swallow and of those
who love her according to my lore, O mother of Swallow. Look, I read it
there.”

I looked and saw that the large bowl was filled to the brim with pure
water. At the bottom of it lay some white sand, and on the sand were
placed five pieces of broken looking-glass, all of which had been filed
carefully to a round shape. The largest of these pieces was of the size
of a crown of English money. This lay in the exact centre of the bowl.
Above it and almost touching its edge, was another piece the size of a
half-crown, then to the right and left at a little distance, two more
pieces of the size of a shilling, and below, but some way off, where
the bowl began to curve, a very small piece not larger than a six-penny
bit.

“Swallow,” said Sihamba, pointing to the two largest of the fragments,
“and husband of Swallow. There to the right and left father and mother
of Swallow, and here at her feet, a long way off and very small,
Sihamba, servant of Swallow, made all of them from the broken glass
that shows back the face, which she gave me, and set, as they must be
set, like the stars in the Cross of the Skies.”

Now I shivered a little, for in myself I was afraid of this woman’s
magic, but to her I laughed and said roughly:

“What fool’s plaything made of bits of broken glass is this that you
have here, Sihamba?”

“It is a plaything that will tell a story to those who can read it,”
she answered without anger, but like one who knows she speaks the
truth.

“Make it tell its story to me, and I will believe you,” I said laughing
again.

She shook her head and answered, “Lady, I cannot, for you have not the
Sight; but bring your husband here, and perhaps he will be able to read
the story, or some of it.”

Now at this I grew angry, for it is not pleasant to a woman to hear
that a man whom all know to be but a child compared to her can see
things in water which she is not able to see, even though the things
are born only of the false magic of a witch-doctoress. Still, as at
that moment I chanced to hear Jan seeking me, for he wondered where I
had gone, I called to him and set out the matter, expecting that he
would be very angry and dismiss Sihamba, breaking up her magic bowl.
But all the while that I talked to him the little woman sat, her chin
resting upon her hand, looking into his face, and I think that she had
some power over him. At the least, he was not at all angry, although he
said that I must not mention the business to the _predicant_, who was
well known to be a prejudiced man. Then he asked Sihamba to show him
the wonders of the bowl. Replying that she would if she might, and
always keeping her eyes fixed upon his face,

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