obs and murmured
caresses.

"Fare thee well. God be with you!"

There was Brenckmann with his three sisters, there was Venter with one
sister and a sweetheart, and there was the sweetheart of one of
Brenckmann's sisters, to say nothing of the other relatives and
friends whom I have been unable to place.

Some distance from the scene, and unobserved by all save one, was the
figure of the ever-cautious and discreet van der Westhuizen, guarding
the parcels which had previously been conveyed there, lurking among
the trees.

Swiftly and silently Hansie sped up to the house to meet the Captain,
just as he, unable to bear the suspense any longer, had made up his
mind to set out on his perilous expedition alone and was cautiously
emerging from the bath-room door, concealing himself under the
vineyard as he went.

"They are there, Captain," she said in a quick and lowered voice,
"waiting for you under the willows. Lower down near the bush van der
Westhuizen is also waiting. He will distribute the parcels when you
come. I think everything is in order and the coast clear. The military
camp is quiet, the sergeant-major is in his 'tin villa.' Good-bye,
Captain. God bless you."

The man removed his helmet and stood before her in the pale light of
the rising moon. His face was very white.

"I shall never be able to thank you. God keep you. Good-bye,
good-bye." He clasped her hand and was gone, as silent as the shadows
into which he disappeared.

When Hansie rejoined her mother a few minutes later no word was said
on either side. The extreme tension was over, the reaction had set in,
and they could not trust themselves to speak, but set to work at once,
firmly and decently removing every trace in the house of confusion and
disorder.

In the room vacated by Captain Naude they found the snapshots of his
wife and children taken in the Concentration Camp.

Mrs. van Warmelo held them up to her daughter's view with a
significant look.

"I am not surprised that he would not take them with him," she said.

CHAPTER XXXVII

BETRAYED

Hansie was one of those unfortunate women who cannot cry, but I
believe she cried that night when the awful strain was over, the house
quiet and deserted, and the feeling of "nothing to do but wait"
creeping over her.

She and her mother lay for hours listening for sounds of commotion in
the suburb, following in spirit the brave men on their route to the
free veld, so perilous and inse