Читать книгу The Fire Trumpet - Mitford Bertram - Страница 27

The morning after the hunt was gloomy and dispiriting, for the weather had undergone a complete change daring the night, and now, instead of blue sky and a sunny landscape, a dense vaporous curtain hung over the kloofs, everywhere thick, heavy and impenetrable, while from the dull grey sky fell a continuous and soaking drizzle.

“I say, but it’ll be poor fun riding back in this,” exclaimed Hicks, contemplating the spongy ground splashed by the drippings from the iron roof. “We shall have to wait until it clears.”

“Shall we? Speak for yourself, Mr Hicks. We are not made of sugar,” said Ethel, mockingly. She was in high spirits this morning and brimming over with mischief.

“Now that is rational,” put in a voice behind her. “Hadn’t we better start at once?”

She turned. “Oh, so you are afraid of the elements, too. Then out of consideration for you two, we shall have to wait. Or shall we go on and leave them, Laura?”

“They deserve it,” said Laura. Then dubiously: “It’s a nuisance, though, because I know aunt will be expecting us back.”

“Now look here,” rejoined Claverton, quietly. “Your aunt specially authorised me to see that you did nothing rash. Getting wet through under circumstances totally unnecessary is an eminently rash proceeding. Wherefore I am constrained to lay an embargo on anything of the kind. More especially as by two o’clock there will not be a cloud in the sky.”

“Won’t there? Two to one there will. What shall it be?” cut in Armitage.

“Jack never bets. At least I heard him not many days ago striving hard to convince a Methodist parson of that fact,” said Claverton, appealing to the company in general.

“Wanted to throw him off his guard and book the devil-dodger for a venture. Besides, it wasn’t a parson, it was only that humbugging old Garthorpe, who goes about preaching, and—”

“I should have thought you had found out he wasn’t such an ass as he looked, Jack,” said Naylor, significantly.

Armitage looked rather foolish at this; and one or two who knew the joke tittered slightly.

“Hallo, what’s the jest? Trundle it up, Naylor, we don’t often catch Jack napping,” said Claverton.

“Oh, I’ll tell you myself,” exclaimed the victim of it, airily. “Well, you know, I was down at Thorman’s place one evening, and old Garthorpe came jogging up on that spindle-shanked nag of his. It was just about feeding time, so he off-saddled and got his head well into the trough in no time. Daring the evening we were talking a lot about the war scare, and the old chap stuck out that it was all bosh, in fact insinuated that we were a pack of funks. He wasn’t afraid of the Kafirs, he said, not one of them would hurt him, and so on. This rather put our backs up, you know; there was myself, and Johnson, and Gough, and a couple of Dutchmen, so we hit upon a little scheme to give the old fellow a bit of a funk when he left. It was as dark as pitch—”

“‘And smelt of cheese,’” put in Claverton. “Why not do justice to the quotation?”

“Confound it, if you can spin the yarn better than I can, do so, by all means,” retorted Armitage, in mock dudgeon.

“He wants to get out of it,” said Ethel. “It won’t do, though, we insist upon hearing it.”

“Well, then, as I was saying, when that fellow interrupted me, it was as dark as pitch, but the moon would soon be up. I and Johnson laid our heads together, and arranged that we two and Gough should blacken our faces and go and waylay old Garthorpe in the drift about half a mile from the house. Well, we slipped out one by one and got ourselves up in style, red blankets and all, looked as thorough-paced cut-throats as ever you clapped eyes on—”

“Can quite believe it,” murmured the former interrupter.

“There he is again,” exclaimed Armitage, wrathfully. “Well, we got down into the drift and soon we heard the horse’s feet, and old Garthorpe came mooning along, concocting some sermon or other for the next day, which was Sunday. The moon had just risen, but was not bright enough to betray our identity. We jumped out of the bush. Johnson collared the bridle, and the other two of us drew up in line across the path. What does the old chap do, but quick as lightning pull out a revolver and poke it into Johnson’s face. He dropped the bridle like a hot potato and skipped into the bush, and then old Garthorpe levels it dead at us. We looked sharp to follow Johnson’s example, and then the old chap rode quietly on, chuckling to himself. Gough swears he heard him say ‘somethinged scoundrels,’ but that may have been part of the sermon he was concocting. Anyhow, he turned the tables on us most completely.”

“Probably the revolver wasn’t loaded,” suggested Claverton.

“Revolver! Sorra a bit. It was a pipe-case. We three skedaddled for our lives before a preaching old humbug at the fag-end of an old pipe-case.”

A roar went up from his auditors at the picture.

“Fact,” repeated Armitage. “Tell you what, though; that thing looked plaguey like a pistol in the moonlight. Besides, it’s just the sort of thing a fellow would bring out, you know, under the circumstances. Old Garthorpe went bragging about it all over the shop, and very soon the joke got wind. But this is all very well. How about our bet, Claverton?”

“Oh, all right, I’ll take you. Two to one in half-crowns there won’t be a cloud in the sky by two o’clock.”

“Done,” said Armitage. “Any one else game?”

But no one was. “We are not going to encourage anything so disreputable as that betting mania of yours,” said Ethel.

“Well, good people,” called out Jim’s jovial tones, as he swung himself out of his dripping mackintosh, and stamped and scraped to rid his boots of the mud before entering, “how about a start this morning? Not much chance of it, is there, unless you are ready to swim for it.”

“Well, we must,” said Naylor; “I must be home to-day. I’m expecting Smith round my way about those slaughter-oxen this afternoon, and if I’m not there, away goes a good bargain.”

“Besides, we shall be all right in the trap,” said his wife. “Laura, why not come with us, if you are in a hurry to get back? We could manage to make room for you and Ethel, and your horses could be led.”

“Thanks; but I don’t think we ought to desert our escort in that way,” she answered. The plan suggested in no wise fell in with her views—nor, we may add, with those of Ethel.

“It’ll be outrageously shabby of you if you do, and in fact we shan’t allow it,” said Claverton.

“The damned Britishers are made of salt—afraid of a little rain,” growled Thorman, in a low tone, at the other side of the room.

Jeffreys, to whom the remark was addressed, and who had reasons of his own for abhorring the “imported” element, acquiesced in the sneer, and just then they were summoned to breakfast. It cleared in the afternoon with startling suddenness, and as the equestrians started for home, the blue sky was without a cloud.

“This is lovely,” exclaimed Ethel, as they cantered along; “but,”—and the bright laughing face clouded—“isn’t it a nuisance? Will Jeffreys is going back with us.”

“What, all the way?” said Claverton. “I thought we were going to choke him off at Van Rooyen’s, where we picked him up.”

“No such luck. He’s going back to Seringa Vale; at least, so Mr Armitage says.”

“Oh, that may be only Jack’s chaff; but—”

He checked himself as something seemed to strike him. “Bosh!” he thought, “Jack only sees that she rather hates the bullet-headed fool, and is trying to take a rise out of her.” Then aloud: “That fellow Jack is a confounded nuisance at times, and yet on the whole I think he’s an acquisition.”

“Oh, yes; he makes one laugh so often, which is a great thing. Just look at him now, for instance.”

Both turned to watch the interesting object of their discussion, who was evidently about to keep up his reputation—for Allen, whose decrepit steed had gone dead lame, and was incapable of carrying him, had received the loan of the volatile Waschbank, which sprightly quadruped was evidently rather more than a handful to him. Armitage perceiving this, delighted to get behind and by dint of sundry clicking noises, softly articulated, to induce the already excited animal to plunge and shake his head frantically, and make violent attempts at bolting, to the dire discomfiture of the rider, who clutched the bridle spasmodically with both hands, holding on, as it were, “by the skin of his teeth.”

“It’s rather a shame,” mused Claverton, as they contemplated the performance. “Why can’t he let the poor devil alone, even for half an hour? Allen isn’t a bad fellow, although he’s an ass in some things.”

“Look out, Allen. Hold on, pay out your rein, or, by George, he’ll have you off!” Armitage was saying, while Jeffreys rode behind sardonically enjoying the other’s discomfiture. And the warning came none too soon, for Waschbank, finding the increased pressure of the rather sharp curb, which his rider was bearing on more and more heavily, defied his frantic attempts at a bolt, sought to vary the entertainment by suddenly rearing. Then as Allen, in a panic, quickly slackened the reins, grasping at the same time a bit of the mane, away went Waschbank with a rush and a snort, his rider still clinging on like grim Death. But this was not to last long, for one of the said rider’s long spurs digging violently into his flank, the animal put down his head, and springing into the air, all four feet at once, promptly shot the hapless Allen into space and a thorn-bush which grew handy. Then after vainly endeavouring in the course of half-a-dozen more “bucks” to rid himself of his saddle, the amiable brute gave a loud snort and started for home at a hand gallop.

“Hallo, Allen!” cried Claverton, dismounting to haul him out of the bush. “Jump up, old man. Not hurt, are you? That’s it?” as the other staggered to his feet groaning and wincing; as well he might, for his “continuations” were stuck as full of thorns as a well-stocked pincushion is of pins. “Better thorns than broken bones, you know. What’s to be done? At the rate that brute’s going he’ll be within a hundred yards of Buffel’s Kloof by now, or we might have exchanged. Sticks is as quiet as a village scold on board the ducking-stool.”

“Plenty more thorn-bushes,” sneered Jeffreys, in a load aside. “But it’s a safe enough offer now that Waschbank’s gone home.”

“I say,” began Jack, in mock concern, “what are we to do? Toss up who shall pursue the absconding Waschbank with a pinch of salt, eh?”

“Humbugging apart, though,” said Claverton, “we are only about a mile from Van Rooyen’s; the best thing for Allen to do will be to walk on there, and the Dutchman will be able to rig him out with some sort of a mount to take him home.”

This was arranged, and they rode on.

“I think Jack carries his jokes too far sometimes,” remarked Claverton. “He’ll find his level some day.”

They soon arrived at Van Rooyen’s, and the Dutchman, having enjoyed a hearty laugh over poor Allen’s mishap, sent for the steadiest old roadster in his paddock and mounted the dethroned hero thereon; and after resting an hour, which somehow had nearly dragged itself out to two, the party were in the saddle again, bound for their respective homes. But it is the Seringa Vale quartette—for the obnoxious Jeffreys had, after all, left them at Van Rooyen’s—whom we shall now follow. It was late when they left Buffel’s Kloof, and now, as they rode over the rising ground which shut the Dutchman’s farmstead from sight behind, the very short gloaming of a South African day was already drawing in.

“I don’t know how it is; as a rule I enjoy a ride at night,” said Ethel, “but this evening I can’t help wishing we were safe at home, I feel quite low and nervous;” and she shivered.

“I know how it is. You’ve caught cold,” replied her companion. “It’s a particularly warm evening, and you’re shivering as if it were mid-winter. Here—wait a bit—and put this on.”

In a trice he had unstrapped an ample waterproof cloak from his saddle, and, dismounting, wrapped it twice round her, tightly and securely, yet so as not to impede the management of the reins.

“Thanks. No, I wasn’t cold—it’s very absurd—but I feel as if something dreadful was going to happen. A kind of presentiment.”

“Nonsense, child. You have been catching cold; but we shall both be catching it hot soon for being so outrageously late. Come along, here’s a nice level bit, and those two are a good mile ahead.”

“Yes, it’s too absurd of me,” she said, as they cantered on; “but—I felt a drop of rain.”

They looked up. Sure enough the sky had suddenly clouded over, and several large raindrops splashed down upon the road.

“We are in for a shower, I’m afraid,” said Claverton. “Nothing for it but leg-bail. However, that ancient garment will keep you as dry as a chip, unless it has suddenly performed the feat in physiology which Holy Writ associates with the Ethiopian.”

They rode on with heads bent forward, for a fierce gust drove the rain, which had now increased to a deluging shower, right into their faces.

“Look at that!” exclaimed Ethel, in a terrified voice, as a vivid flash played around them, causing the horses to start and swerve. It was followed by a deep roll of thunder—long, loud, and startlingly near.

“Who’d have thought it?” said her companion. “It may be just a passing flash or so, and we shall ride through it in a minute.” He spoke cheerfully; nevertheless, there was anxiety in the quick, half-furtive glance which he cast upwards and around.

“Do you think so? It may not be much, after all; and I’m an awful coward,” she answered, trying to laugh; but her voice shook with apprehension, and her face was pale in the vivid gleam which fell around them, and faded, leaving the gathering gloom almost pitchy from contrast. “Do let’s go back,” she added.

“Too late. It would take almost as long to get back to Van Rooyen’s, as to reach home. Besides, we should get into the thick of it—it’s all behind us.”

They rode on. The path lay along a high ridge, and the surrounding veldt looked indescribably desolate as a furious blast tore and howled over the wild waste, driving the rain into their eyes. But suddenly wind and rain alike ceased; and lo! a great stream of jagged fire shot down upon the road in front, accompanied by a terrific crash—a crash as though the earth had yawned asunder and they were floating in a sea of flame. The horses, affrighted by the appalling sight and the strong smell of burning which was plainly perceptible, snorted and plunged, and then stood still, trembling in every limb.

“We had better leave the road,” said Claverton. “We shall be safe enough down in the kloof; though here it is a trifle nasty.”

“Shall I dismount?” she asked.

“No; sit still and follow me. Can you steer your horse all right, or would you rather I led him?”

“Oh, no; I can manage.”

They went down and down, deeper and deeper through the long, wet grass and dripping bushes; and now and again a flash would light up the far depths of the great, dark kloof with a blue gleam, and the thunder roared and reverberated among the rocks and krantzes beyond. Before they had gone far, Claverton dismounted and kept a firm hand on his companion’s bridle, for the horse slipped and stumbled over the wet stones on the steep side of the kloof. Ethel did not speak, but her lips would convulsively tighten with fear as each vivid lightning-flash played around them, with its terrific accompaniment. She was horribly afraid of thunderstorms, even when safe at home, but to be benighted thus in the open veldt, in the midst of such a one as this, was simply appalling.

“At any rate we are safe enough here, though it is infamously wet,” said her escort, reassuringly; “and—by George, we are in luck’s way—there’s a house!”

A roof became apparent at the bottom of the ravine, and in a few minutes they had reached it. But disappointment was in store, for the welcome haven of refuge turned out to be an old disused shanty, formerly run up for the accommodation of some road party, or possibly had served as an out-station for those in charge of grazing stock. Nevertheless, though a tumble-down and sorry-looking tenement, yet it would afford a tolerably substantial shelter from the drenching fury of the storm. Claverton lifted his companion from her saddle, and pushing open the mouldering door, which creaked with an unearthly noise on its rusty hinges, they stood inside.

“Not exactly the marble halls of the poet’s dream—deuced cold they must have been at times—but it’s wet outside and dry in here, which makes all the difference,” he remarked, as he struck a match and surveyed the interior of the sorry apartment. The dilapidated thatch hung in cobwebbed festoons, throwing out ghostly, waving shadows in the flickering light; and a cockroach or two, alarmed by this sudden intrusion, scurried along the worm-eaten beams. “Wait half a second,” he went on, “while I just go and hitch up the horses, and then we’ll proceed to make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances will allow.”

“Oh, Arthur, don’t leave me alone, even for a moment! I am so frightened!” she exclaimed, clinging to his arm. The name slipped out in her terror, but she was quite unhinged, and noticed it not.

“Frightened? You foolish child,” he answered, reassuringly; “there’s nothing to be afraid of now—Look. We can afford to laugh at the storm here, and will be as snug as anything directly.”

“But it’s so dark, and—”

“Dark. Well, yes; unfortunately the last tenant forgot to leave any candles for our benefit, which was uncivil of him, to say the least of it. However, ‘the Heaven above’ is kindly doing its best to supply the deficiency, and we’ll meet it half-way by starting a famous blaze.”

So saying, he gathered together some old bits of board which lay about, and, chipping them into small fragments, built up a fire well in the middle of the room—for the fireplace was choked up with dust and fallen bricks—and, lighting it, the flames darted up, crackling and sputtering, and diffusing a genial and revivifying warmth.

“There. The smoke will go out through the thatch, and at any rate it won’t be worse than in a Kafir hut. You’re not very wet, are you? No, I thought my old poncho hadn’t lost its cunning. And now you won’t be afraid to stay by yourself a minute while I look after the horses. It’s dark as pitch outside, and the brutes will be wandering Heaven knows where if I don’t make them fast at once.”

He went out, and leading the horses round to the back of the house proceeded to secure them in a sheltered place. While thus engaged a low scream, emanating from the room he had just quitted, fell on his ear.

Left alone, Ethel drew the cloak tighter round her, and crouched over the bright, dancing flames; but in spite of their cheery glow she shivered. How long would it be before he came back? He had hardly been gone a minute, and it seemed an age. Then a flash and a loud thunderpeal made her start, and her face blanched, and she hid it in the ample cloak, and cowered down in mortal dread. How long would he be? Supposing the horses had strayed, and he had gone after them, and had lost his way, and should be unable to find the hut again. Oh, horror of horrors! if she were to be left alone there all night, alone, in the silence of that deserted place—a silence only broken by an occasional and mysterious rustle or creaking—and at the very thought of it her brain reeled and sickened, and the muffled patter of the rain upon the thatch sounded like the dull roar of many waters, and—Oh, Heavens! what was that?

For a growl, as of some wild beast, fell upon her terrified ears. She dared not raise her head, and again that grisly sound arose—long, low, and menacing.

Opposite to where she sat was a doorway leading into another compartment of the hovel. This was nearly concealed when the door by which they had entered stood open, being behind it; but now that the entrance was shut the gap yawned, dark and shadowy. And as Ethel glanced towards it, her gaze fell upon two glaring eyes in the blackness beyond. Was she dreaming? No, there they were—two scintillating green stars—their awful gaze fixed upon her with a terrible stare. The blood curdled in her veins; she tried to scream, but her tongue refused to fulfil its office; her limbs shook, and had she been standing she would have fallen to the earth prone as a log. And still that piercing, baleful stare shone through the blackness—and—God!—was she going mad? Her heart beat as if it would burst; every second was a lifetime; every pulsation of her throbbing temples seemed like the blow of a sledge-hammer, and her glance was fixed upon those terrible orbs with basilisk fascination. Then the sound of Claverton’s voice outside apostrophising the horses, broke the spell, and she uttered the scream of helpless terror which caught his attention.

Quickly, yet quietly, the door was opened, and he stood beside her.

“What is it?” he asked, in the calmest of tones.

“Look!” was all she could reply; but there was no necessity for following the direction of her dilated eyes, for at that moment the dreaded sound came through the doorway louder than ever.

“Oh!—That all?” he said. “Now, look here, child, don’t be in the very least afraid, there’s nothing to be afraid of, and we’ll soon put an extinguisher on that. It’s only some half-starved Kafir mongrel that’s got in.” His ear detected fear rather than rage in the snarl which to her overwrought senses had sounded so dread and menacing. He stretched out his hand towards the gun, which he had placed against the wall on entering. “Now, sit still, and don’t be afraid,” he reiterated; but before he could bring it to bear, there was a loud yell and a rush; something large and heavy sprang into the room, cannoning against his legs, and nearly overturning him, then sped out through the half-open door into the rain and the darkness, while poor Ethel, who had had as much fright as she could stand, fell backward in a dead faint.

Quickly he held his handkerchief beneath the dripping thatch before the door, and in a moment it was soaked through and through. Then, supporting her head, he placed the cold wet bandage upon her temples, and drawing forth his pocket-flask, which was about a third full of brandy and water in equal proportions, he poured a little of the potent mixture between her lips. A deep sigh of returning consciousness, the long lashes unfolded, and the blue eyes looked wonderingly into his. Then, with a start, she made as if she would rise, but he restrained her.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said. “Take it easy for a little while longer—there’s lots of time.”

She shivered. “Oh, I’ve had an awful fright! What was it?” she said, with a shudder.

“Nothing. Nothing whatever, except that your too-lively imagination ran riot with you. Anyhow, it’s all right now, so what you’ve got to do is just to keep perfectly still until I tell you to move. By-and-by I’m going to read you a lecture.”

“But you won’t leave me alone again,” she entreated.

“No, not as long as you do what I tell you!”

She was silent, for she felt very weak and helpless after her fright.

“Take some more of this,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“But you must.”

She obeyed him passively. Then revived by the invigorating spirit, she sat up.

Her companion looked at her.

“Ethel,” he said, “you’re an awful little coward. You’re worse than any town-bred English girl, getting into such a fright about nothing—absolutely nothing—upon my word you are. I shouldn’t have thought it of you, you know, I shouldn’t, really.”

He spoke in a serio-jesting tone of expostulation, not actually meaning what he said, or that she had had no real cause for alarm. But he did not want her mind to revert too much to what had happened; wherefore he treated the occurrence as a mere hallucination. The line he adopted had the desired effect, for a gleam of her old self shot from the blue eyes as she answered:

“You had no business to leave me all alone, then. And, do go and see that there’s nothing in that other room.”

“All right,” and he got up to comply; but she followed him.

“I can’t remain here by myself,” she pleaded.

“Can’t you? Well, but you see, you can’t go with me. So we’ll solve the difficulty by fastening up both doors, and we’ll make ourselves comfortable here till that jolly old sun sneaks up again;” and in a moment he had secured the doors, and was beside her again.

“But—I am so hungry,” she laughed.

“H’m, that’s unfortunate, because there’s nothing to eat unless we fall to on the stirrup-leathers. Wait a bit, though. By Jove!” He fumbled in one of the numerous pockets of his shooting-coat, and produced a packet done up in whitey-brown paper, which being unfolded, disclosed a large and somewhat demoralised sandwich, considerably the worse for wear. “Not a very inviting morsel,” he remarked, surveying the battered comestible. “Yet it may do at a pinch to keep the wolf from the door. Though,”—he added to himself—“that amiable quadruped is likely to give the door a deuced wide berth considering the mortal funk he was in when he shot through it just now.”

The girl laughed, quite in her old joyous, light-hearted way. “I should think so,” she cried. “We’ll go halves.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” said her companion. “I’ll give you ten minutes, and if there’s a crumb left of that antique sandwich by then I’ll—well, I’ll go out again and see how the horses are getting on.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’ Really I’ll go.”

This awful threat was effective, and being ravenously hungry, Ethel speedily made short work of the sandwich, protesting to the last against the other’s decision. But he was firm.

“Two people under one umbrella, both get wet,” he observed, sententiously. “What will feed one will starve two. I’m going to have a pipe instead. Lucky that greedy beggar Jack didn’t know I had any more provender yesterday, or he would inevitably have cadged it. I had forgotten it myself till this moment.”

“I wonder what has become of the others,” said Ethel.

“Safe at home, long ago. They’ll think we went back to Van Rooyen’s,” he replied.

“But we might, you know; the storm seems to be over now.”

“Not to be dreamt of,” answered he, decisively. “It’s pitch dark, and raining in a way that would set the patriarch Noah spinning yarns about old times if he were with us. We should be wandering about the veldt all night, instead of being snug by a good fire.”

“I suppose so,” acquiesced the girl, “and, do you know, I’m getting so sleepy.”

“Glad to hear it,” was the reply; and placing one of the saddles near the fire, Claverton arranged a corner of his ample cloak over it so as to form a pillow. “Lie down here,” he said, “you can imagine yourself in a railway carriage or anywhere else that’s infamously uncomfortable;” and as she obeyed he wrapped the cloak well round her, and returned to his former place.

Presently she opened her eyes—“Arthur.”

“Well?”

“Promise you won’t leave me—or I shan’t be able to sleep a wink.”

“Why, I thought you were fairly off. It’s twelve o’clock.”

“No—I’m not—Promise!”

“All right—I won’t budge.”

“Thanks;” and in a few moments her regular breathing told that she had forgotten her troubles in sleep.

Claverton piled some more wood on to the fire and drew in closer, shivering slightly, the fact being that he was nearly wet through—having given up his cloak as we have seen. Then he proceeded to fill his pipe.

“Poor little thing,” he mused, contemplating the slumbering form of his companion in adversity. “What a fright she was in—and small blame to her. Wonder what the beast could have been,” and getting up, he went and examined the soft ground by the door to see if it had left any spoor. “Yes—I thought so: a wolf, and a damned big wolf, too.” (Note 1.)

He returned to his seat by the fire and sat dreamily smoking. “What a pretty picture she makes,” he thought; and in good truth she did, as the long lashes lay in a dark semicircle on the rounded cheek, while the full red lips were parted ever so lightly, and the firelight danced and flickered with a ruddy glow on the golden head of the sleeper.

“Very good fun now, no doubt, that is if it were not so infernally cold,” he went on, “but the situation may begin to look awkward in the morning, when we are besieged by the kind inquiries of friends. However, the gentle sex knows devilish well how to take care of itself, that’s one comfort. ‘Self-preservation is the first law of woman,’ I truly believe to have been the original rendering of the proverb—the reason of its alteration is but too obvious. But assuredly the child would have been dead, or deuced near it, by morning if we hadn’t found this place, whereas now, in half-a-dozen hours’ time she’ll wake up fresh as paint, and probably abuse me like the prince of pickpockets, and swear it would have been much better to have slept out in the veldt all night. That’s the way of them.”

A flash of lighting lit up the room with a fitful gleam, and a loud roll of thunder shook the old house to its very foundations. The storm, as frequently happens in those regions, had been travelling in a kind of circle, and was now returning in all its former fury.

“Will it wake her? She has had enough scare for one night,” he thought, uneasily glancing towards her. But no; thoroughly wearied out, Ethel never moved as the rickety casements rattled to the fierce gusts which howled round the building, and Claverton felt relieved. Presently he got up and went to the window. All was pitch dark outside, but every now and then the sky would be ablaze with a sudden flash—blue, plum-coloured, and gold, in its vivid incandescence—the hill tops stood out as if cut in steel against the misty background, while beneath yawned the intersecting rifts of black, chasm-like kloofs, every leaf and twig wet and shining, as clearly definable as at noonday. A panorama of weirdness and desolation. Then pitchy blackness and the long heavy roll of the storm king’s artillery. Claverton resumed his seat, and the thunder crashed and roared outside, the lightning played in vivid gleams, and the rain fell in torrents with a noise like the rush of many waters; but within, silence, only broken by the soft, regular breathing of the sleeper, and the plash of a big drop on the floor, for the tattered thatch was not so watertight as might be wished. And the night wore on. The fire burnt low, leaving the angles of the ghostly old room in shadowy darkness, while now and again a scratching noise might be heard as some creeping thing made its way through the thatch or along the beams. The storm lulled, and then passed, and, save for the murmur of falling rain, perfect silence prevailed outside, and still the chilled watcher sat there, upright and motionless. Then he fell into a doze. The dismal bark of a jackal was now and again borne from the lonely bush; but not a sound escaped him as he sat there, till at last the first faint shiver of dawn thrilled upon the hushened air; a red glow in the east, then a blood-coloured streak on the few light clouds which,—but for the soaked earth, were the sole traces of a night of fierce tempestuousness.

Claverton rose and went out softly, so as not to arouse his companion, to where he had tied up the horses. Those long-suffering animals pricked up their ears and whinnied at his approach, and, except that one of them had got its leg over the reim, were just as they had been left the night before. Then he went back to awaken Ethel. A smile was upon her lips, and as he stood over her a gleam of sunlight shot in at the open door and played upon the beautiful face. He lingered a few moments, for he could hardly bring himself to arouse her; but time was flying, the sun was up, and they must be going. So he said, quietly but distinctly: “Time to be off, Ethel.”

The girl started slightly, opened her eyes, then started again in bewilderment. He watched her with an amused expression.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed, sitting upright and looking round. “Oh, I remember. I thought it was all a dream.”

“Well, we must be getting home. I’m just going to take the horses down into the kloof and give them a drink, and then we’ll make tracks.”

He went out, and Ethel got up and looked around. “What a selfish little wretch I am!” she thought, as her eyes rested on the relics of the night’s doings, the dying embers of the fire, beside which lay the empty pocket-flask, and the bit of paper and string whence the opportune sandwich had been extracted, and then on the cloak which she had just thrown off. “I took everything from him, and left him to sit there all night, cold and wet and hungry. I wish it had to come all over again, that I might sit out in the rain and the thunder and lightning all night. That’s what I’d do, I swear I would,” she ended, vehemently.

A trampling of hoofs outside showed that the object of her meditations was returning.

“Now then, I’ll just put the saddles on and we shall get home in nice time for breakfast,” he said; “but, first of all, we’ll see how our friend of last night got in.”

“What, did that actually happen? I thought I dreamt it.”

Claverton laughed. “I intended you should,” he said. “It would never have done for you to have thought about it all night long; but it was a fact, nevertheless. Come and look here.”

He pointed out three great footmarks just inside the doorway, left by the terrified animal as it rushed out; then bursting open the door of the other room, they went in.

“There’s no outlet,” he said, looking around. “Stay—yes, here’s a hole behind the fireplace; but it could never have got in there. No; here’s the key to the mystery,” as they came upon the mangled carcase of a half-grown kid. “This little brute must have got in somehow, and the wolf, attracted by its yelling, charged through that door,” showing one which opened into the room from without; “then it must have banged to and caught him in a trap. Pity I wasn’t able to shoot the scoundrel!”

Ethel shuddered at the recollection. “Let’s start,” she said, turning towards the door.

He put her into her saddle and they left their opportunely-found shelter. The sun was now up, and, as they ascended the side of the kloof, the whole landscape sparkled and glowed beneath the scorching beams, every leaf and blade of grass studded with diamonds; and the birds carolled forth gaily in the glad morning air, and doves shook out their soft plumage, and cooed to each other on the wet sprays, and it was difficult to realise such a culmination to a night of storm and terror. Just before they reached the road a strange fancy moved Claverton to turn and look back upon their late haven of refuge, and then a clump of bush hid it from view. He little thought when and under what circumstances he should see it again.

“What was the joke just now, when I woke you up?” he asked, as they rode along.

“Joke? Why—when?” she exclaimed, wonderingly.

“Oh, only that you were having a downright good laugh all to yourself. I thought it a pity to disturb you, so had the grace to give you a few minutes longer, in reward for which I claim to know what it was about.”

She looked at him curiously for a moment, and a faint flush suffused her cheek; then she broke into a ringing laugh. “I don’t believe I was laughing at all,” she said; “and, if I was, I intend to keep the fun all to myself this time. But what will uncle and aunt say when we get home?”

“Say? Oh, that the very best thing we could do was to have—gone back to Van Rooyen’s—got under cover like sensible people,” answered he, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone.

Ethel was silent for a few moments. She was not quite easy in her mind. “I was in a great hurry to get home last night, but now it doesn’t seem quite so delightful,” she thought, with a sort of strange bitterness; and she wondered how in the world she could ever have allowed herself to be so frightened. But meanwhile there was Seringa Vale, and the adventure, or misadventure, was at an end.

Greatly to Ethel’s relief, neither anxiety nor surprise were manifested on their return.

“Hullo!” sang out Hicks. “You were fortunate in being so far behind. We thought of going back, too; but it seemed no use, so we rode on as hard as we could, and got here in the thick of the storm, wet through.”

“Ethel doesn’t like Dutch houses, but she had to sleep in a worse one than Van Rooyen’s once,” said Mrs Brathwaite. “There were only two rooms, and five of us had to turn into one, while all the men took possession of the other. But it was such a place! We couldn’t sleep all night.”

“I suppose not,” said Claverton. If they were at cross purposes, it was not his business to go out of his way to enlighten them, especially as, in this instance, cross purposes were best.

And Ethel evidently thought so too.

Note 1. The large striped hyaena is called “wolf” in South Afrioa, just as the panther is always referred to as “tiger.” Both terms are, of course, zoologically erroneous.