There is little more to tell. Just that old, old story—that sad refrain
of the Kaffir woman that we British-born can conquer anything but Death.
All unaware, that scourge of the Wet crept back to the homestead, and
the great Shadow, closing in on us, flung wide those gates of Death once
more, and turning, before passing through, beckoned to our Maluka to
follow. But at those open gates the Maluka lingered a little while with
those who were fighting so fiercely and impotently to close
them—lingering to teach us out of his own great faith that “Behind all
Shadows standeth God.” And then the gates gently closing, a woman stood
alone in that little home that had been wrested, so merrily, out of the
very heart of Nature.
That is all the world need know. All else lies deed in the silent hearts
of the Men of the Never-Never, in those great, silent hearts that came
in to the woman at her need; came in at the Dandy’s call, and went out
to her, and shut her in from all the dangers and terror that beset her,
quietly mourning their own loss the while. And as those great hearts
mourned, ever and anon a long-drawn-out, sobbing cry went up from the
camp, as the tribe mourned for their beloved dead—their dead and
ours—our Maluka, “the best Boss that ever a man struck.”
FINIS