Having rested himself and his steed, and still farther diminished the
contents of his saddle bag, Roden filled and lighted another pipe, and
began to think about saddling up.
He sent a last look around, but no sign of life was there, save for a
faint column of blue smoke rising in the distance. Attentively he gazed
at this. Did it mean another burning house, a smoke signal, or a camp
of friend or foe? It was impossible to say; at any rate, it was a long
way off, and what was more to the purpose, nowhere near his line of
route. Satisfied on this point, and feeling on excellent terms with
himself and all the world, he rose and made his way down to where his
steed was grazing.
But now some trouble awaited; for he had knee-haltered the animal with
too great a length of _reim_, and rather carelessly as to the knot,
consequently the latter had slipped, leaving the horse almost as free as
though he were loose. So now as he walked quietly up, speaking softly
and soothingly, to secure his steed, Roden saw that he would need all
his patience.
For the young horse was of a fidgety habit, and, as though aware of his
power, no sooner did his rider extend a hand to catch him than, with a
loud snort, he swung wildly round, placing his tail where his head
should be. Another attempt, more coaxing, only met with a like result.
The exasperating brute would allow the hand to approach within halt a
yard of the _reim_, then would slew round as before.
This trick is a common enough one in the `cussedness' of equine economy.
It is about as exasperating as anything in this wicked world, and if
there exists an average man who, being the victim of it, refrains from
using terrible language aloud or _secreto_, why, in the plenitude of our
experience we never fell in with him. At any rate, Roden Musgrave was
not such a one, though he so far varied upon usual custom by damning,
not the horse, but himself, and his own inconceivable carelessness in
making such a bungling job of the knee-haltering.
The plan under the circumstances is craftily to manoeuvre the obdurate
quadruped against a bush or a fence. Here, of course, there was no
fence, and the only bush was that which grew around the stony _kopje_ to
which we have alluded, and thither, in accordance with the much-belauded
equine intelligence--which, by the way, invariably shows itself in the
wrong direction--nothing on earth would persuade this fiendish beast to
proceed. Anywhere else, but--not there.
Roden tried another plan, that of waiting. He would have given much for
a good forty yards of lariat, but `roping' cattle and horses is a
process unknown in South Africa, consequently he was without that highly
serviceable Western implement. Then having waited to allow the horse to
calm down again, he advanced once more to the attack.
It was not an atom of use. The young horse put his head down with a
snort of defiance, and slewed round more wildly than before. He seemed
positively to enjoy the fun of the thing, to enter into the joke with a
fiendish glee. It was a joke, however, which might prove a grim one for
his rider.
And such indeed it did prove. The _reim_, an old one, or containing a
flaw, suddenly gave way. His leg now free, and at its normal distance
from his chin once more, up went the noble animal's nose into the air,
and with a defiant whisk of the tail, which seemed to assert a
determination to enjoy his newly gained liberty, away he started at a
smart trot, which soon changed to a gallop, heading for all he knew how
in the direction of the camp he had left that morning.
Those who prate about the marvellous intelligence of the equine race,
are still under the magic of the story-books of their youth. This
representative of it no sooner found himself free than he started off--
whither? Not, be it observed, for his master's stable, where excellent
quarters and plenteousness of mealies and forage awaited, and which in
point of distance was the nearer, they having covered more than half of
the journey. Oh no; but back to the camp, back to the scene of his
recent hard work, patrols, and scantiness of feed beyond that wherewith
Nature had covered the veldt. An intelligent beast, in truth! Nor was
he a phenomenal specimen of his kind.
Roden Musgrave, watching his steed vanishing in the distance, followed,
we fear, the example of the British army in Flanders. He swore
terribly. He was human enough to estimate what he would give to be
seated across that now departed quadruped for ten minutes or so, armed
with a strong new sjambok, and a pair of long-rowelled spurs; and
indeed, the provocation was great.
Well, he was in a pretty plight; alone, dismounted, in the middle of the
hostile ground, night drawing on, and only a hazy idea of his route.
His boast to Darrell that he could easily evade parties of the enemy was
well founded enough when he made it, for the Kaffirs possessed but few
horses, and those few, thanks to having been ridden almost from
foalhood, of weedy and undersized proportions. Now it was different.
He could no more distance the fleet-footed savages than they could have
overtaken him when mounted. On foot, he was at their mercy.
There was only one thing to be done under the circumstances. Since he
could not ride, he must walk. No sooner decided than acted upon.
Hiding the saddle and bridle among the bush on the _kopje_, and
pocketing what remained of his store of provision, he started. Nearly
an hour had been lost in his attempts at capturing his miserable traitor
of a steed, and now the sun was already down. Well, so much the better.
Travelling would be safer by night than by day.
To one accustomed to ride, nothing is more disconcerting than to find
himself unexpectedly dismounted, in wild, little-known, and dangerous
country. It is even demoralising, for it engenders a feeling or
helplessness. A mere man, the only animal without any speed in his
legs, is such an insignificant object amid the wild stretch of nature;
his capacity for advance and retreat so limited under such
circumstances. And he realises it.
Certainly Roden Musgrave realised it that night as he tramped on wearily
beneath the stars. Even finding the way was quite a different matter
when afoot to what it had been when mounted. Instead of a few minutes'
_detour_ to a point whence an observation might be made, now it meant
quite a long and toilsome tramp, with the galling consciousness that all
that toil carried him no farther on his way. The thin sickle of a new
moon hung in the heavens, and for this he felt duly grateful, for
without its light, faint though that was, he would have made but sorry
progress amid stones and antheaps and thorns and long grass and meerkat
holes.
For hours thus he kept on. Once he saw the red glow of a fire not far
from his line of route, and his heart leaped. A patrol? No. A
moment's thought served to show that no patrol would have its camp-fire
alight at so late an hour. It could be nothing less formidable than a
Kaffir encampment, and that of a strong force, judging from the
fearlessness manifested in the small amount of care taken to conceal the
blaze. And a Kaffir encampment meant an enemy's encampment, and that
enemy a savage one. So he avoided the vicinity of the light, and held
on his way with increased watchfulness.
What weary work it was, mile upon mile over more or less rough ground,
every rise surmounted revealing another beyond it, every step covering
the possibility of stumbling upon a concealed enemy. Sometimes, too, he
would be obliged to deviate a long way from his course, to avoid a deep
and bushy kloof, whose vegetation was so dense as to be practically
impenetrable. Staggering now with weariness, he was about to sink down
to sleep away the remainder of the night, when his gaze lit upon that
which banished sleep from him for the moment.
The ground was open there; smooth, and gently undulating. In front,
standing in the middle of the flat, was a house.
Was this a delusion? He rubbed his eyes. There, in the faint light of
the now setting moon, stood the house, a substantial-looking farm
homestead. It was no delusion. Visions of a snug bed, and an
inexpressibly welcome sleep, beset the weary wayfarer; of a remount, and
a speedy arrival at Doppersdorp--_via_ Suffield's farm. Eagerly,
joyfully, his step regained its elasticity, as he advanced to knock up
the sleeping inmates, who, English or Dutch, would certainly receive him
with the customary hospitality.
But as he drew near, again his heart sank like lead. No barking of dogs
greeted his footsteps. The kraals were empty and the gates open, the
shatters of the windows were up. The house was deserted.
"Of course!" he mattered despondently. "The cursed place is empty.
Perhaps there's somebody left in charge, though."
But even as he approached the door he realised that there was that
indescribable something about the place which told that no human being
was there, a kind of lifelessness that might be felt. He knocked, but
only a hollow echo from the empty passage gave mocking and ghostly
response.
"Oh, curse the luck of it all!" he growled. "Hang me if I don't break
in. They'll have left a shakedown of a sort anyhow, and I'll do a snug
snooze; besides, one may chance to stumble upon a bottle of grog stowed
away."
He looked around. Close by, a black square mass, indistinct in the
waning moon, lay the deserted sheep-kraals. But now he noticed what had
escaped him before. Behind the house, perhaps fifty yards distant from
it, was an enclosed fruit garden, and the trees seemed weighed down with
their luscious loads. Ah! the very thing. In his parched and exhausted
condition, what would go down better than a dozen or so of peaches or
apricots? So, postponing his exploration of the interior, he directed
his steps to the garden, and getting over the low sod wall which
encircled it, began with the "know" of a connoisseur to look for the
tree which bore the best fruit.
This was soon found. Halting under a peach-tree he gathered the fruit
as he wanted it, breaking it open and scrutinising it carefully by what
little light the moon afforded; for the South African peach is not to be
eaten in the dark, its interior being as often as not a mass of
squirming maggots; and of it holds good the same as of some human
beings--the more immaculately perfect the exterior, the greater the
settled corruption within. However, the light was moderately sufficient
for such requisite discrimination, and soon he had made a most luscious
and acceptable feed.
This done, he returned to the house and carefully tested all the
shutters. They were made of strong slabs, and held firm. But there was
one small window at the back which was not shuttered, only protected by
a board, fitting to the window-frame. This Roden wrenched away in a
trice, and seeing that there was no other way of doing it, proceeded
cautiously to break a pane of glass.
Heavens! what a clatter and jingle it made in the stillness of the
night--the shower of glass falling upon the stone window-sill, and into
the room! Then, carefully inserting his hand, Roden was able to pull
back the bolt, and in another moment was in the house.
"Well, this is my first burglary, anyhow," he said grimly to himself, as
striking a match he began to survey the surroundings.
Frontier farmhouses are all built pretty much on the same plan, and
almost invariably one-storeyed. Roden saw at a glance he was in the
kitchen, but it and the living rooms were equally dismantled. The
owners of the place, whoever they were, had evidently not trekked in a
panic, but in leisurely fashion enough to have taken away with them
pretty nearly all that could be taken.
There is always something more or less ghostly about the interior of an
empty house at night time. As Roden went from room to room, exploring
by the feeble light of a flickering wax vesta, it seemed that in the
dark corners lurked the shadows of the former occupants, watching, with
resentful and menacing stare, this burglarious intruder. The planks,
creaking beneath his footfall, raised loud and unearthly sounds in the
hollow silence, and once in the semi-gloom, the swaying of an old
blanket, hung overhead on a line, gave him a real start, so strung were
his nerves with excitement and fatigue. But the object of his search
was a prosaic one enough. He explored every room, every cupboard, the
store closet, everything. There were a few old tins of preserved
salmon, and a box or two of sardines, half a sack of mildewed flour, and
a string of onions. There were utensils of various kinds, all old and
worthless, heaped among empty mustard tins and glass bottles of all
sorts and sizes. But of what he sought, there was none.
"I'm certain I'd give a sovereign at this moment for a good glass of
grog!" he told himself. "However, it isn't to be had, and I was in lack
to drop in here in the fruit season. Those peaches were A1. I think
I'll go and talk to them again."
But, simultaneously with this determination, a great drowsiness began to
come over him. In one of the front rooms, among the heavier furniture
which had been left, was a coach, large and massive, and withal
comfortable; just the very coach to invite a wearied and exhausted man.
So, fixing the shatters so as to admit a crack of air, he flung himself
upon the coach, and was sound asleep as soon as he touched it.
Now there came into Roden's slumbers, at first dead and dreamless, a
kind of restful consciousness as languorously soothing as at that hoar
on the night after his mishap, when Mona had sat at his bed head,
charming him off to sleep by the mere touch of her hand upon his
forehead, by the soft intonation of her love-thrilled voice at his ear.
Surely, her presence was with him now, here in this lonely deserted
dwelling in the heart of the hostile country. He had but to reach forth
his hand and touch her. Once more the charm availed, and again he sank
into the unconsciousness of a peaceful, dreamless slumber.
Soon, he stirred again in his sleep, and muttered uneasily. Her face
was before him once more, and on it was imprinted that same expression
of love and agony and despair as he had seen there when he hung over
that grisly abyss, in weakness and excruciating pain; her hand alone
holding him up from the dreadful death. Some mysterious and awful peril
seemed to be rolling in upon him now, holding him spellbound and
powerless to move. Now, as then, she was striving to drag him into
safety, but futilely. He had no power over himself. The weight which
oppressed him was terrible. Then her face vanished in a whirl of
despairing horror. Once more all was a blank, all was deadness. Only
the silence of the lonely house, the regular breathing of the sleeper.
"Roden, wake! My heart's life! my beloved one! Wake, wake!"
The voice thrilled in the sleeper's ear, vibrating through the dense,
silent darkness like the notes of a silvery-toned gong. Again there was
a flash of a vision of that face again, pale with horror and dread,
anguished beyond words--the vision of a white-clad form and long
streaming hair.
With a spasmodic start Roden sat bolt upright. What did this mean, what
did it portend, this voice of one who was at that moment a long day's
journey distant, springing thus out of the darkness? Heavens! had
anything happened to her? It was so real, so vivid, that despairing
call! What did it mean? what could it mean?
Seated thus upright on the couch, his eyes rested upon the aperture
formed by the fixing apart of the shutters. This, hardly
distinguishable before, save for a bright star or two beyond it, was now
a stave of light. Daylight? That was his first thought; but in a
moment he knew that it was not daylight, for it was flickering,
changing. The band of light was now a strong, red glare; and together
with the sight there came a sound which there was do mistaking.
Roden was wide awake now; as wide awake as ever he had been in his life.
Rising noiselessly from the couch, gun in hand, even as he had slept,
he made his way, still noiselessly and with great care to avoid knocking
against any obstacle, to the window. One wary glance through the
aperture, and then he beheld that which came near causing the last shred
of hope to die within his heart.