"Hungry! No," repeated the postman; "you are past that. Why did not you
send that letter by your father's man—the old fellow was waiting by the
kopjee for the parcel I promised to bring your father—eh?"
"Please, sir, I came from Jaarsveldt," put in Jack.
"Jaarsveldt!" exclaimed Wilton in astonishment. "That is miles and
miles away. You must not think of trying to go back there alone; you
are a great deal nearer your old home. Keep to my tracks until you come
to the kopjee, and then I think you will be able to find your way,
for I have often seen you there by your father's side watching for my
coming. Now mind what I say, and eat this," the postman continued,
taking out his pocket-flask and pouring some of its contents over a
piece of captain's biscuit.
Jack found it wonderfully reviving. One of the passengers who had been
listening to the conversation threw him a bit of bultong—that is, meat
cut in strips and dried in the wind; and a hand was stretched out from
the inside of the cart with a nice slice of watermelon. Jack lifted his
big hat and bowed all round.
Wilton reiterated his charges.
"Please, sir," said Jack earnestly, "I am not alone; I have got my
ostrich," pointing to the hole where Vic still lay, with her head well
buried in the sand, in a paroxysm of fear on account of the horses.
Jack wondered why the men all laughed. He promised faithfully to do as
he was told; and away drove the post-cart, leaving him in that vast
solitude once more. He watched "Her Majesty's mail" crossing the wild
desert plain until it vanished to a dusky speck.
The rolling sand on every side surrounded him like an earthy sea, for
it was driven in wave-like heaps by a sudden gust. An ice-cold wind was
driving before it a cloud so dense and black Jack trembled, for he knew
that thunder was lurking in its inky folds. He ran to Vickel, who was
rallying her spirits, after the apparition of those prancing horses,
by browsing among the rosemary bushes. She too had felt the change.
A little black and white bird flew fast from ant-hill to ant-hill,
seeking shelter from the coming storm.
Vickel began scratching a hole in the billowy sand with unusual
vehemence, as a troop of eland deer rushed past within a dozen yards
of the rosemary bush she had been munching. Jack crept in terror to
her side, as the "velderbeeste" dashed madly on, and the first fierce
lightning flash parted the blackening gloom.
Jack gave one cry—he could hardly help it—as the thunder crashed and
rolled above his head. But his faithful Vic's broad wing was spread
above two heads instead of one, as the bird and the boy huddled
together in the hole she had been scooping.
It was an awful moment. Down came the heavy drops of thunder-rain. The
tall grass waved and shivered. Aroused by Jack's wild cry, a quaint
black figure crept cautiously out of a deserted ant-bear's hole, with
which the ground was honey-combed, and looked around. Another and
another jagged flash compelled her to fling herself on the ground to
escape its fury.
Swiftly as the storm had arisen, so swiftly did it pass. Beyond the
angry clouds a bright-hued rainbow spanned the wide reach of sky and
kissed the crimsoned sand, that seemed to glow with a deeper red when
the brightness of the golden sunshine was withdrawn.
To Jack's surprise Vickel began to hiss. He parted her feathers with
his fingers and looked cautiously around.
The storm was dying, but every leaf was glittering with its sparkling
diamond drop. The thirsty earth was already rejoicing; the very flowers
seemed whispering, "Rain, more rain," as they lifted their drooping
heads in grateful gladness.
The black had raised herself on one elbow, and was gazing earnestly
at Vickel's damaged plumage. Those singed wings could not easily be
mistaken. Like the hum of the wandering bee her song arose:—
"Lamb without a mother, where, oh, where?
Bird without a heart,
To leave the fair 'umfana' and depart;
Or was the hard, hard casa hard to thee?
And did he force a faithful bird to flee?"
Jack sprang to his feet and rushed towards the singer. The voice was
the voice of the poor Black Antelope. He could have recognized that
song had they met at the ends of the earth.
"Umfana," repeated Jack, catching the sound of the one Kafir word with
which she had made him familiar. "Why, that was what she always called
me, and Zyl was her 'umdanda,' now I recollect."