ft them together for a
while--"When _you_ were--when I thought you dead--I wearied Heaven with
prayers to allow me one glimpse of you again. I had no fear then, but
now--O God! it is _his_ spirit that I have seen."

He tried to soothe her, to reassure her, and in a measure succeeded. At
last, to the surprise of himself and the overseer, she seemed to shake
off her terror as suddenly as it had assailed her. She was very
foolish, she declared. She would go to bed now, and not keep them up
all night in that selfish manner. And she actually did--refusing all
offers on the part of Eustace or the overseer to remain in the sitting
room in order to be within call, or to patrol around the house for the
rest of the night.

"No," she said, "I am ashamed of myself already. The shutters are
fastened up and I shall keep plenty of light burning. I feel quite safe
now."

It was late next morning when Eanswyth appeared. Thoroughly refreshed
by a long, sound sleep, she had quite forgotten her fears. Only as
darkness drew on again a restless uneasiness came over her, but again
she seemed to throw it off with an effort. She seemed to have the
faculty of pulling herself together by an effort of will--even as she
had done that night beside the broken-down buggy, while listening for
the approaching footsteps of their savage enemies in the darkness. To
Eustace's relief, however, nothing occurred to revive her uneasiness.

But he himself, in his turn, was destined to receive a rude shock.

CHAPTER FORTY.

A LETTER FROM HOSTE.

There was no postal delivery at Swaanepoel's Hoek, nor was there any
regular day for sending for the mails. If anybody was driving or riding
into Somerset East on business or pleasure, they would call at the post
office and bring out whatever there was; or, if anything of greater or
less importance was expected, a native servant would be despatched with
a note to the postmaster.

Bentley had just returned from the township, bringing with him a batch
of letters. Several fell to Eustace's share, all, more or less, of a
business nature. All, save one--and before he opened this he recognised
Hoste's handwriting:

My Dear Milne (it began): This is going to be an important
communication. So, before you go any further, you had better get into
some sequestered corner by yourself to read it, for it's going to
knock you out of time some, or I'm a Dutchman.

"That's a shrewd idea on the part o