in the kloof. So now in this second great crisis of their
lives, it was by means of a dream that comfort was brought to the hearts
of both of them, enabling them, as I believe, to bear the terrors of
those long years of tidingless terror and separation, that otherwise
would have broken down their minds and perhaps have killed them.

It seems, as Suzanne told me in after days, that before she slept that
night, there in the guest-hut of Sigwe, she prayed long and earnestly
as those who have faith do pray when they lie under the shadow of an
overwhelming grief. She prayed that God would bring about what she was
unable to bring about, namely, that her husband should learn that she
was unharmed and well, and that she might learn how it went with him,
seeing that for aught she knew, by now he might be dead of his wounds.
Well, that prayer was heard, for I myself can testify to it, as
the prayer of faith is so often heard; yes, that which seemed to be
impossible was done, for in the watches of the night these two who lay a
hundred miles apart, one of them a prisoner in the town of a savage,
and the other helpless upon a bed of pain, had sight and speech of each
other.

Still praying, Suzanne fell asleep. Then of a sudden it seemed as though
space had no bars for her, for she awoke, or thought that she awoke, in
the guest-hut of Sigwe, since she could hear the breathing of Sihamba at
her side, and stretching out her hand she touched her face. But in the
twinkling of an eye there came a change, for, still wide awake, now
she was standing in the stead at home just within the door of her
own sleeping-room. There upon the bed lay her husband, fevered and
unconscious, but muttering to himself, while bending over him were I,
her mother, and a strange man whom she did not know, but who, as
she guessed, must have been roused from his sleep, for his hair was
dishevelled and he was half-clothed.

To this man she heard me--her mother--talking. "The fever runs so high,
doctor," I said, "that I made bold to wake you from your rest, for I
fear lest it should burn his life away." Thereupon she saw the man look
at Ralph, feeling his pulse, and heard him answer as he examined the
bandages of the wound, "His hurt does well, and I do not think that the
fever comes from it. It comes from his mind, and it is there that the
danger lies, for who can doctor a broken heart?"

"Heaven only," I replied.

"Yes," he said. "Heaven only. And now, Vrouw