ed long lines of
silver-tipped hills and violet valleys, and, here and there, great open
stretches of undulating space with a clear view across leagues and
leagues to the very edge, it seemed, of the world. As one such great
stretch of country rolled into view from a rise in the road, Druro
spoke for the first time, in a low voice, vaguely and half to himself.

"There is the land I love--_my_ country!"

With his hand he made a gesture that was like a salute. After all, he
was a Rhodesian, and this was his confession of faith. The story of
the lamp-posts was only a bluff put up to disguise the hook Africa had
put in his heart, the hook by which she drags all those who love her
back across the world, denying, reviling, forswearing her even unto
seventy times seven, yet panting to be once more in her adored arms.
All Rhodesians have this heart-wound, which opens and bleeds when they
are away from their country, and only heals over in the sweet veld air.

Gay did not answer. He had hardly seemed to address the remark to her;
yet it went home to her heart because she, too, was a Rhodesian, and
this was the land she loved.

Suddenly they swept down once more into a tract of country thick with
bush and tall, feathery trees. Here the rotting timbers of some old
mine-head buildings and great mounds of thrown-up earth inked against
the sky-line showed that man had been in these wilds, torn up the earth
for its treasure, and passed on. Near the road an old iron house, that
had once been a flourishing mine-hotel, was now almost hidden by a
tangle of wild creepers and bush, with branches of trees thrusting
their way through gaping doorways and windows.

"This was the old Guinea-Pig Camp. It is 'gone in' now, but once it
was a great place--this old wilderness," said Tryon to Mrs. Hading, and
misquoted Kipling.

"They used to call it a township once,
Gold-drives and main-reefs and rock-drills once,
Ladies and bridge-drives and band-stands once,
But now it is G. I."

He stopped, and the car having reached the foot of the hill that led
out of the valley stopped, too, as if paralysed by its owner's efforts
at parody. It had been jerking and bucking like a playful mustang for
some time past, and behaving in an altogether curious manner, but now
it was stiller than the dead. Tryon waggled the levers to no avail,
then flung himself out of the car and got busy with the crank. Not a
move. Druro then got out a