He did not write much, and he did not come for five years. When
he came he was not at first communicative. He seemed to take more
interest than he used to do in the Mission, I noticed. He had
always been a hero among the Mashona boys: that was no new thing.
And I was thankful indeed to see that he had not lost his old
artless art of making friends with them. So many things might
have conspired to rob him of it. He stayed but a month in all at
the Mission, and he said little all that time, but his eyes were
full of thought as I talked to him passing on to him hopes,
disappointments, joys of battle unabating and enhanced. He was a
good listener. I did not try to force the pace with him. But for
all that I was eager to know his mind. And it seemed a long while
waiting and waiting, thinking he might be going to speak day
after day. Then at last the time did come for him to speak, but
it was after he had left the Mission.
History repeated itself, and we camped in the old place once
more. The camp-fire shone out, and the moon rose broad and golden
over the grave of pilgrimage. There he lay with his feet to the
north on the height above us the founder and name-giver of our
State. It was strange how his patronage seemed to dominate us. We
said our evensong rather northwards than eastwards; we scanned
the northern horizon as though seeking a sign. The wind blew that
way as we paced to and fro afterwards, and our thoughts went the
way of the wind.
At last I broke the silence. We were resting on a ledge of rock
then, smoking, staring away north-wards among the moonlit kopjes.
There he sat beside me, fair-haired and tall, strong and
rejoicing in his strength, always courteous but strangely dumb.
He was going to-morrow. Would he go without a revealing word?
'So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to
be.'