"Unless they are very young. But the Berserk taint soon wears off as you get on into life a bit," said Errington.

"Well now--I turn off here. Good-evening."

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"IT IS THE VOICE OF AN ORACLE."

Swaanepoel's Hoek, poor Tom Carhayes' other farm, was situated in the division of Somerset East, somewhere between the Great and Little Fish Rivers. It was rather an out-of-the-way place, lying in a mountainous district, spa.r.s.ely inhabited and only reached by rough wheel-tracks through narrow, winding _poorts_. But the scenery was wild and romantic to a degree. The bold sweep of bush-grown slopes, the lofty heights culminating in red iron-bound _krantzes_ whose inaccessible hedges afforded nesting place for colonies of _aasvogels_, the thunder of the mountain torrent pent-up between black rocky walls where the maiden-hair fern hung in solid festoons from every crack and cranny, the cheerful and abundant sounds of bird and animal life--all this rendered the place a wonderfully pleasant and attractive, if somewhat out-of-the-way, residence.

To Eanswyth Carhayes, however, this very isolation const.i.tuted an additional charm. The solemn grandeur of the soaring mountains, the hush of the seldom trodden valleys, conveyed to her mind, after the bustle and turmoil of the crowded frontier settlement, the perfection of peace. She felt that she could spend her whole life on this beautiful spot. And it was her own.

She had only once before visited the place--shortly after her marriage-- and then had spent but three or four days there. Its beauties had failed at that time to strike her imagination. Now it was different.

All the world was a Paradise. It seemed that there was nothing left in life for her to desire.

The house was a fair size, almost too large for the overseer and his family. That worthy had asked Eustace whether Mrs Carhayes would prefer that they should vacate it. There was a substantial outbuilding, used--or rather only half of it was used--as a store, and a saddle and harness room. They could make themselves perfectly snug in that, if Mrs Carhayes wished to have the house to herself.

"I can answer for it: Mrs Carhayes wishes nothing of the sort," he had replied. "In fact, we were talking over that very thing on the way down."

"Sure the children won't disturb her, Mr Milne?"

"Well, it hasn't looked like it up till now. Those youngsters of yours don't seem particularly obstreperous, Bentley, and Mrs Carhayes appears rather to have taken a fancy to them than otherwise."

"If there's a kind sweet lady in this world, Mr Milne, it's Mrs Carhayes," said the overseer earnestly. "I know the wife'll make her right comfortable while she's here. She'll save her all bother over housekeeping or anything of that sort. Excuse the question, but is she likely to be making a long stay?"

"I shouldn't wonder. You see, there's nowhere else for her to go, and the quiet of this place suits her after all she has gone through. And she has gone through some pretty lively times, I need hardly tell you."

"I should think so. Why, what a narrow escape she had that time you were bringing her away from Anta's Kloof, when the trap broke down.

That was a frightful position for any lady to be in, in all conscience."

"Oh, you heard of that, did you? Ah, I forgot. It was in every paper in the Colony--more or less inaccurately reported, of course," added Eustace drily, and then the two men lit their pipes and chatted for an hour or so about the war and its events.

"By the way, Bentley," said Eustace presently. "Talking about that outbuilding. I've decided to knock out the part.i.tion--it's only a wooden one--between the two rooms next to the storeroom, turn them into one, and use it as a bedroom for myself. The house is rather congested with the lot of us in it, after all. We might go to work at it this afternoon."

"Certainly, Mr Milne, certainly," replied the overseer. And forthwith the tool-chest was laid under requisition, and in a couple of hours the necessary alterations were effected.

This move did not altogether meet with Eanswyth's approval, and she expostulated accordingly.

"Why should you be the one turned out in the cold," she said. "There's no earthly necessity for it. You will be horribly uncomfortable over there, Eustace, and in winter the nights will be quite bitter. Then again, the roof is a thatched one, and the first rain we get will start it leaking like a sieve. Besides, there's plenty of room in the house."

"It isn't that, you dear, thoughtful, considerate guardian angel," he answered. "It isn't quite that, though I put it that way for Bentley's behoof. It is something of a concession to Mother Grundy, for even here that arch-hag can make her upas power felt, and I don't want to have all the tongues in the district wagging like the tails of a pack of foxhounds just unkennelled. We had enough of that at Komgha. So I've arranged that at any rate we shan't be under the same roof. See?"

"Yes; but it's ridiculous all the same. As if we weren't relations, too."

"And will be closer relations soon--in fact, the closest. I suppose we must wait a year--but that rests with you."

"I don't know. It's an awfully long time," and she sighed. Then rather hesitatingly: "Darling, you have never yet shown me the little silver box. We are alone now, and--"

"And you are dying to see it. Well, Eanswyth, it is really a most remarkable coincidence--in fact, almost makes a man feel superst.i.tious."

It was near sundown. A soft, golden light rested upon the great slopes, and the cooing of doves floated melodiously from the mealie lands in the valley. The mountain stream roared through its rocky bed at their feet, and among the crannies and ledges of a profusion of piled up boulders forming miniature cliffs around, a whole colony of bright eyed little _dasjes_ [The "rock rabbit"--really a species of marmot] were disporting themselves, scampering in and out with a boldness which augured volumes in favour of the peaceable aspect of the two human intruders upon their sequestered haunt.

"As you say, the time and place are indeed fitting," said Eustace, sitting down upon a boulder and taking the box from its place of concealment. "Now, my darling, look at this. The a.s.segai point is broken short off, driven with such force that it has remained embedded in the lid."

It was even as he said. Had the blade been driven with a powerful hammer it could not have been more firmly wedged within the metal.

"That was the blow I received during the fight," he went on. "The dent at the side of it was done when I stood up to the witch-doctress. It did not penetrate much that time; not that the blow wasn't hard enough, for it nearly knocked me down, but the a.s.segai was a rotten one and made of soft iron, and the point flattened out like a Snider bullet.

Heavens! but that was an ordeal--something of a nerve-tickler!" he added, with a grave and meditative look in his eyes, as if he were mentally re-enacting that trying and critical scene.

Eanswyth shuddered, but said nothing. She nestled rather closer to his side, as he continued:

"Now to open the box--a thing I haven't done since, partly from superst.i.tious motives--partly that I intended we should do so together-- if we ever were to be again together, that is."

He pressed the spring, but it was out of order. It needed the wrench of a strong knife blade before the lid flew open.

"Look at that. The a.s.segai point is so firmly wedged that it would take a hammer to drive it out--but I propose to leave it in--use it as a `charm' next war perhaps. Now for the letter. It has gone through and through it--through the photograph too--and has just dinted the bottom of the box."

He spread out the letter. Those last tender, loving words, direct from her overflowing heart, were pierced and lacerated by the point of the murderous weapon.

"If this is not an oracle, there never was such a thing," he went on.

"Look at this"--reading--"`I dare not say "G.o.d bless you." Coming from me it would entail a curse, rather than a blessing...' The point has cut clean through the words `a curse'--Mfulini's a.s.segai has made short work of that malediction. Is not that the voice of an oracle?"

She made no reply. She was watching the development of the investigation with rapt, eager attention.

"Here again--`Were anything to befall you--were you never to come back to me my heart would be broken...' As the paper is folded it has cut through the word `heart'--And--by Jove, this is more than a coincidence!

Here again, it has gone clean through the same word. Look at the end.

`_I want you in all your dangers and hardships to have, with you, these poor little lines, coming, as they are, warm from my hand and heart_'...

And now for the photograph. It is a sweetly lifelike representation of you, my dearest--"

A cry from her interrupted him. The portrait was a three parts length cabinet one, cut round to enable it to fit the box, which it did exactly. Right through the breast of the portrait, the a.s.segai point had pierced.

"O Eustace--this is an oracle, indeed!" she cried. "Do you not see?

The spear point has gone right through my `heart' again for the third time. My dearest love, thrice has my `heart' stood between you and death--once in the portrait, twice in the letter. At the same time it has obliterated the word `curse.' It is, indeed, an `oracle' and--What if I had never given you that box at all?"

"I should be a lot of dry bones scattered about the _veldt_ in Bomva.n.a.land at this moment," he rejoined. "Now you see how your love has twice stood between me and death; has preserved my life for itself.

My sweet guardian angel, does not that look as if some Fate had always intended us for each other from the very first!"

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

AT SWAANEPOEL'S HOEK.

Several months had gone by.

The war was nearly over now. Struck on all sides--decimated by the terrible breech-loading weapons of the whites--harried even in their wildest strongholds, their supplies running low, their crops destroyed, and winter upon them--the insurgent tribes recognised that they were irretrievably worsted. They had no heart for further fighting--their princ.i.p.al thought now was to make the best terms they could for themselves. So all along the frontier the disheartened savages were flocking in to lay down their arms and surrender. Those who belonged to independent tribes in the Transkei were treated as belligerents--and after being disarmed were located at such places as the Government thought fit. Those who were British subjects, and whose locations were within the colonial boundaries, such as the Gaikas, Hlambis, and a section of the Tembus, were treated as rebels and lodged in gaol until such time as it should please the authorities to put them on their trial for high treason, treason, felony, or sedition, according to their rank, responsibilities, or deeds. Still the unfortunate barbarians preferred to discount the chances of the future against present starvation--and continued to come in, in swarms. The gaols were soon crammed to overflowing; so, too, were the supplementary buildings hired for the emergency.

Not all, however, had preferred imprisonment with plenty to liberty with starvation. There were still armed bands lurking in the forest recesses of the Amatola, and in the rugged and bushy fastnesses beyond the Kei.