b the blocked wall or otherwise to
communicate with them, a thing so strange that, knowing his affection
for her, Benita came to the conclusion that he must be dead, killed
perhaps in the attack. Even Jacob Meyer had abandoned his digging, and
sat about all day doing nothing but think.

Their meal that night was a miserable affair, since in the first place
provisions were running short and there was little to eat, and in the
second no one spoke a word. Benita could swallow no food; she was weary
of that sun-dried trek-ox, for since Meyer had blocked the wall they had
little else. But by good fortune there remained plenty of coffee, and
of this she drank two cups, which Jacob prepared and handed to her
with much politeness. It tasted very bitter to her, but this, Benita
reflected, was because they lacked milk and sugar. Supper ended, Meyer
rose and bowed to her, muttering that he was going to bed, and a few
minutes later Mr. Clifford followed his example. She went with her
father to the hut beneath the tree, and having helped him to remove his
coat, which now he seemed to find difficulty in doing for himself, bade
him good-night and returned to the fire.

It was very lonely there in the silence, for no sound came from either
the Matabele or the Makalanga camps, and the bright moonlight seemed to
people the place with fantastic shadows that looked alive. Benita cried
a little now that her father could not see her, and then also sought
refuge in bed. Evidently the end, whatever it might be, was near, and of
it she could not bear to think. Moreover, her eyes were strangely heavy,
so much so that before she had finished saying her prayers sleep fell
upon her, and she knew no more.

Had she remained as wakeful as it was often her fate to be during those
fearful days, towards midnight she might have heard some light-footed
creature creeping to her tent, and seen that the moon-rays which flowed
through the gaping and ill-closed flap were cut off by the figure of a
man with glowing eyes, whose projected arms waved over her mysteriously.
But Benita neither heard nor saw. In her drugged rest she did not know
that her sleep turned gradually to a magic swoon. She had no knowledge
of her rising, or of how she threw her thick cloak about her, lit her
lamp, and, in obedience to that beckoning finger, glided from the tent.
She never heard her father stumble from his hut, disturbed by the sound
of footsteps, or the words that passed be