Book II—The Refugee Train. (continued 2)

Yes, Aletta was fretting, if a pale and careworn look upon her face was any index to the mind within. Now, with a rush, all came back—all that this man was to her. She recalled the hours they had spent together—every tone and every look—all that he had ever said, and how time had fled like a streak of sunbeam when she was in his presence—how, too, her first thought on awaking to another day, again and again, had been one of half-incredulous, blissful gratitude that in this way she was to go through life. And now he was gone, and at any moment, for all she knew, he might be lying dead and still for ever upon the veldt. Oh, it would not bear thinking on! She had not known what love was before, she told herself. She knew now, and when he returned to her he should know too. This separation had taught her. Surely, too, it had taught him.

Among those who frequently visited at Piet Plessis’ to try to cheer her up was, somewhat to her surprise, her cousin Adrian; remembering how badly he had taken her refusal in the first instance, and the dire threats he had used towards whosoever should usurp what he chose to imagine was his place. Then she reflected that, after all, he had justified the good opinion she had always held of him, in that he had accepted the inevitable in a sensible and manly way. True, once or twice it occurred to her uneasily that he might be taking the opportunity of ingratiating himself once more in view of possible accidents; but she put the thought from her Another source of surprise was the way in which she found herself talking to Adrian about the absent one. At first she had shrunk from so doing, deeming the topic an unpalatable one to him. But he had not seemed to regard it as such, and she soon lost her constraint on that head. Then Adrian’s visits became of daily occurrence, and Piet and his wife, seeing they seemed to brighten Aletta up, encouraged them.

One day she asked him how it was he still remained in Pretoria. Now that the war was an accomplished fact, his place, she should have thought, would be at the front. News kept coming in—together with more prisoners—news of brilliant engagements, and successful stands made against the foes of the Republic—yet Adrian, who had always been so energetic in his advocacy of an appeal to arms, dallied here, instead of marching with those who were fighting for the patriot cause. To this he had replied that there was time enough before him. The struggle was young yet; long before it reached its culminating point, he would be in the midst of it—yes, and would have made his mark too. Thus he told her.

The while, however, he was playing his own game, and that necessitated more than one trip over to Johannesburg, more than one conference with that other Kershaw. The plot concocted by these worthies was nearly mature.

The time had now come for playing a new card. When Aletta waxed eloquent over her absent lover, Adrian, hitherto kindly and considerately responsive, now preserved silence; indeed he lapsed into silence with just sufficient markedness as to move her to notice it. This he did some few times, until one day she asked him the reason, point-blank.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Aletta,” he answered. And then he abruptly took his leave.

But at the very next of his visits she returned to the subject, as he knew she would, and intended she should.

Why had he become so markedly constrained? she asked, a sudden deadly fear blanching her face. Had he heard anything—any bad news?

“From the front, you mean? No, no; nothing of that sort,” quailing involuntarily before the set, stony look of anguish, and half wavering in his plan. Then, recovering himself, “Well then, Aletta, it’s of no use keeping it to oneself any longer; besides, you ought to know. Are you sure there is anyone at the front in whom you have any interest at all?”

“Why, of course! Why, what do you mean, Adrian? Is not Colvin at the front?” she said, bringing out her words with a kind of gasp.

“At the front? Well, I don’t think he is, considering I saw him only this morning at Johannesburg.”

“Oh, then, he is on his way back,” cried Aletta, her face lighting up with such a radiancy of joy as confirmed the other more than ever in his purpose.

“I think not,” he said; “for to-day is not the only time I have seen him there. I saw him the day before yesterday, and one day last week.”

“Adrian, think what you are saying. It is impossible.” But as she stood looking him in the face as though her gaze would pierce and lay bare every secret of his brain, a cold and terrible misgiving smote her. She remembered the positive assertion made by Adrian before on this head, and in Colvin’s own presence. Dr Da Costa’s remark, too, she remembered; likewise her own misgiving, which act of distrust she had since lamented to herself with bitter and remorseful tears. What if this thing should be too true?

“But I have letters from him,” she went on. “I have heard from him twice—from Bloemfontein before he joined Commandant Botma. You must have seen that extraordinary ‘double’ of his, Adrian.”

But Adrian was armed at this point too.

“See you now, Aletta?” he said. “It is very easy to get anything posted in Bloemfontein. Plenty of people travel down there from Johannesburg. As for that ‘double’ idea, I thought at the time that the story was too weak altogether. But now, I ask, does his ‘double’ also know Miss Wenlock? Anyhow, she seemed to be bidding him a very lingering farewell on the stoep of a house.”

This seemed improbable. Still, grasping at the chance, Aletta flatly refused to believe the statement. And then she rounded upon her cousin, and for a space that estimable youth had a very bad time indeed. He had invented this scandalous falsehood, she declared, had invented it out of malice. She remembered his threats that day at Ratels Hoek; but such, at any rate, had pointed to a more manly course than this traducing of the absent. No, she did not and would not believe one word of the story. Adrian could get away out of her sight and never look upon her face again.

But she did believe it partly, and Adrian knew she did. He felt quite secure now.

“Very well, Aletta,” he answered, with a quiet dignity, “I will do as you wish, and you need not be troubled with me any more. That is the treatment I might have expected for opening your eyes to the—well, trick that has been played upon you. Yet I don’t see why you should think me a liar; so it is only fair to give me the chance of proving my words.”

“But how are you going to prove them?” she asked, speaking quickly.

“In the best possible way. Will the evidence of your own eyes satisfy you, Aletta?”

“I cannot refuse to believe my own eyes,” she answered slowly. “That is, in broad daylight,” she added.

“Yes, of course. If you will go over to Johannesburg with me to-morrow you shall be amply convinced. Will you come?”

“Yes. And mind this, Adrian. If you fail to prove this lie—I mean this charge of yours—by the evidence of my own eyes, you shall never receive a word from me again—from any of us, indeed. Never.”

“Oh, I am not uneasy about that. And now I must go. So long. To-morrow, mind.”

The road in which stood Jim Dixon’s abode was well-nigh as deserted at midday as in the dusk of the evening when Adrian had first come into contact with Kenneth Kershaw. Now as he walked slowly along, with Aletta beside him, he could hardly answer her save at random. What if the plan failed? A miscalculation of time on the part of one or both confederates and such might easily be the case. His first idea, which indeed would have been a safer one, was to take up a position in, or concealed by, one of the deserted houses opposite, of which there was a whole row, and watch; but even if he could have got Aletta to consent to this plan, one very important move in the game—the most checkmating move of all, as we shall see—must of necessity be omitted.

The girl was looking pale and worn, for she had had but little sleep. Her determination and spirit, the very vitality of the matter at stake, had kept her up. There were times, too, when she said to herself that this thing could not be, that she was about to discover what a mistake Adrian had made; and in the gladness of the thought she was going to be forgiving to Adrian in that event, not, however, until she had most severely lectured him.

He for his part had affected a demeanour that was gravely compassionate. If he seemed now and then ill at ease, why that struck Aletta as natural—having regard to the delicate nature of the errand on which they were bound. And he had some reason for his uneasiness, for they would soon be right opposite Dixon’s house, and he did not desire to be seen by, at any rate, one of its inmates. What was that cursed fool about, he said to himself, not to show? It was past the time, and they could not patrol up and down for ever.

“Look now, Aletta!” he said, suddenly. “Look! Was I mistaken?”

The front door of a house about a hundred yards further down on the other side of the road had opened, and two figures came out on to the stoep. Aletta recognised them instantly. One was that of May Wenlock, but the other—

No. There was no mistaking it. There he stood, and he was looking down into May’s eyes as he talked to her, was holding her hand in his for a considerably longer time than was necessary for the purpose of bidding farewell. There he stood, her perfidious lover—he who had left her with such words of sworn affection upon his lips, that would be with her until her dying day—he, the thought of whom, hourly, momentarily, it might be in peril of death on the battle field, had filled her mind waking and sleeping—while all the while here he was in quiet safety, carrying on his intrigue with this girl. There he stood; there could not be two Colvin Kershaws in the world, that ingenious story of the “double” notwithstanding. This was the “double” then? Yet it was wearing exactly the same clothes, exactly the same hat, even, as when taking that last farewell of herself—that farewell whose memory had thrilled her heart ever since.

“Courage, Aletta! Courage!” she heard Adrian say, but his voice sounded as from another world. “Keep up a little longer. Now we will make certain. Look!”

The man had parted from his companion now, and as he came down to the front gate, his head was half turned, as with a last loving look towards May, who was still on the stoep. Then he came out into the road, and the door of the house closed.

He walked slowly along at first, not looking up. Then suddenly he did look up, and caught the eyes of the two on the opposite side. The effect was magical. With a bewildered start he half stopped as though irresolute, then, averting his eyes, he trebled his pace and walked rapidly away. But during that swift second his glance had met that of Aletta straight and full; and if ever a human countenance showed dismay, consternation, guilt, utter confusion, assuredly all these emotions were stamped upon this man’s countenance in that brief moment.

“Well now, was I mistaken?” said Adrian again, his voice sounding even farther away this time. “Can you believe your own eyes now, Aletta? You have seen?”

“Oh yes,” she gasped. “I must believe my own eyes. Yes—yes, I have seen.”

The girl’s face was colourless, her lips livid and shaking. Her steps even seemed unsteady. Adrian feared that she would faint. But she did not.

Chapter Seven.

Very like a Prisoner.

Colvin was beginning to have enough of it.

He had spent some weeks with Cronje’s force, and into that short space about half a lifetime of strange and stirring experience seemed to have crowded itself. Besides the Modder River battle, he had witnessed the British repulse at Magersfontein, and had seen several desultory skirmishes. More than one narrow escape had he known, and had been slightly cut about the hand by the splinter of a spent shell. But he had become inured to the rush and whirr of missiles, and now paid no heed whatever to them. He had likewise adopted the American’s suggestion, and started in to take notes on his own account. He might make some use of them after the war, he declared, and, at any rate, as Acton had said, the taking of them gave him something to do. By this time, too, he had become indurated to the ghastly and horrifying sights which had so got upon his nerves at first. Yet he had had quite enough of it, and thought longingly that he would gladly be back at Pretoria. And what stimulated this longing was the fact that during all the time he had been away he had received neither line nor word from Aletta.

At first he had thought but little of this, attributing it to a natural delay consequent on the hurry and bustle of the times. But as days became weeks he began to think it strange and to feel uneasy. Several of the burghers had received letters from their people, and plenty of messages and despatches reached the various field commandants from headquarters. Surely the influence of Piet Plessis would suffice to command means of sending through the communication for which he now began so ardently to long.

Even then no idea approaching suspicion of the real state of affairs crossed his mind. Some technical difficulty might be standing in the way—Piet might not be able to use his official position for such purposes. No, that did not seem to account for it either. Colvin began to feel anxious—he hardly knew why. He had wanted to see the fighting, and he had seen a great deal of it—enough, he thought, to last him for life. The fierce glare of summer midday, with its dust-clouds and chronic and tormenting thirst—the bitter chill of night on the high veldt—lying out under the stars, while every now and then the searchlight in the beleaguered town away in the distance swept round its fan-like ray, now and then drawing the muffled boom of a shot—of all this he had had enough. He made up his mind to obtain Commandant Botma’s permission to return to Pretoria.

Hardly had he done so than a letter was put into his hand. Ah, the longed-for communication at last! and the thrill of delight that went through him almost made up for the long, wearing anxiety. But this was nipped in the bud by a second glance at the envelope. It was not directed in Aletta’s handwriting.

He tore it open. A glance at the end of the sheet showed that the handwriting was that of Piet Plessis’ wife. At the same time an enclosure fell out. This at any rate was from Aletta. Eagerly he picked it up—then, as he mastered the contents, a look of the blankest dismay and bewilderment came over his features. For the contents were very brief, and they ran thus:

“I am going home at once. No explanations are needed, are they? For, remember—I saw.

“Good-bye, Aletta.”

He stared at the sheet of paper, and his look of bewilderment grew blanker and blanker. What did it mean? What on earth could it mean? No explanations needed? But they very much were needed, he thought. And what on earth mystery lay covered by those words, so significantly underlined—“I saw?” What did the writer see? The thing passed comprehension. He turned to the other letter with some wild hope of finding enlightenment there.

It did not afford him much. Aletta had asked her to enclose this note to him, wrote Mrs Plessis, and was going back home to Ratels Hoek at once. “I hope there is nothing wrong,” she went on, “but the child has been very strange during the last two or three days. I don’t know what to make of it. She will not give me her confidence, and made me promise faithfully not so much as to hint to Piet that anything had upset her. She leaves us to-morrow, and travels back home in charge of Adrian. But I trust there is nothing really the matter.”

In charge of Adrian! Ah, now he began to see light. Adrian was behind whatever had happened. Why, of course. His every motive made that way. All that cordiality of his had not altogether gone down with Colvin. There was a suggestion of malice underlying it, which should have put him more on his guard. Adrian had played him some dirty trick in his absence, though what it might be he could as yet form no idea.

He glanced at the letter, also at the note. Both bore a date some ten days old. Why, Aletta would have been home now for days. Well, his mind was made up. Instead of returning to Pretoria, he would proceed straight to Ratels Hoek. No explanation needed! It struck him that that very thing was most urgently needed.

He applied to Andries Botma for facilities, which, being English, he would need to prosecute his journey and to ensure his safe passage through any of the Republican forces he might fall in with. These were readily granted, and the Commandant bade him a kind and cordial farewell.

“I need not remind you, Mynheer Kershaw,” he said, in Dutch, for “The Patriot” never spoke English, although perfectly able to do so, unless positively obliged—“I need not remind you that you have pledged your solemn word of honour to divulge nothing that you may have seen or heard during the time you have been with us. But it is not entirely the other side I distrust, and therefore I would impress upon you the necessity of using the greatest caution in conversing with those who, by nationality, are our own people. But many of them (with shame I say it) are not really our own people—that is, they are not heart and soul with us. They will not strike a blow for the sacred cause—at least not yet. They are waiting to see which will prove the victorious side—as if there could be any doubt. These are the people I would warn you against, when you are back once more across the river. But you are one of us now, for I hear you are to marry Stephanus De la Rey’s daughter. In that receive my most cordial wishes—and carry my compliments to Stephanus and all our good friends in the Wildschutsberg. And if hereafter I can be of service to you at any time—why, it will be to me an agreeable duty. Farewell.”

Colvin shook hands warmly with the kindly Dutch Commandant, and, armed with his credentials, went forth. At the moment he little thought of the weight of that last promise, still less what it might or might not be destined to mean for him in the not distant future. He thought more on the subject of the other’s congratulations, for they stirred up a very real and desolating misgiving. What if events should already have rendered them devoid of meaning?

His journey to the border seemed to him intolerably long and depressing, but its monotony was varied more than once by meeting with a party of burghers patrolling the country or on their way to join Cronje’s force. These would scan his credentials narrowly and suspiciously, but the name of Andries Botma was as a very talisman, and they allowed him to proceed. At the passage of the Orange River, some delay occurred. This, however, was at last surmounted, but it was towards the close of the third day that he found himself—riding a very tired horse—entering the Wildschutsberg range, just beyond which lay his own home, and, yet nearer, Ratels Hoek.

Straight to the latter he intended to proceed, and now, as he drew so near, for the hundredth time he was cudgelling his brains over the mystery of Aletta’s strange behaviour, and for the hundredth time was forced to own himself no nearer finding a clue to it than before—except that he still connected it in some way with the evil influence or trickery of Adrian. Well, two or three hours more would clear it up, for he and Aletta would talk face to face, and in her own home.

Ah, but would they? With a dire chill the thought struck him—what if she were no longer there? had left home, perhaps, and gone away to Cape Town, as she had done before? Well, even thither he would follow her, if necessary, and claim an explanation.

What was this which had come between them? Had their times been too bright, too unclouded, rendering some such trial needful? They certainly had been that Day by day, so far from stagnating, from turning into the easy matter-of-fact groove, their love had grown—had intensified—right up to the moment of parting, so ardently mutual had it been. It had seemed that nothing could add to it—that no margin was left for any further extension of it. Yet as he rode along now, saddened, heart-desolate, almost bereaved, Colvin thought to himself that this ordeal had seemed needed to prove that there was.

As he entered the mountains, the roll as of an approaching storm had boomed sombrely away on his left. Now, in the opposite direction, beyond the range, came faint and far, other deep thunder voices. This was not thunder though. It was a sound he had become tolerably familiar with of late, the distant roll of guns. A battle was in progress in that direction. Well, it did not concern him. He was nearly at home again.

He looked up. The shadows of evening were already lowering. In the dusk something white attracted his glance. A white stone—and then, with a rush, the familiarity of the surroundings swept in upon his mind. He had reason to know that white stone, for it was while passing that very object he had been fired at on the night he had first seen Aletta. The track he had been following here struck the main road, just where it forked, in the direction of his own home, and in that of Ratels Hoek. Well, he would soon be at the latter place now, and then—and then— Ah, how that other evening came back!

This stage of his meditations received a shock, being, in fact, disturbed by a loud, harsh voice calling upon him in Dutch, and very peremptorily, to halt. It proceeded from in front and above. Looking up, Colvin became alive to the startling discovery that some twenty rifles were levelled straight at him, at a distance of about that number of yards. There was no disputing such a summons.

“Dismount!” repeated the voice.

Again there was no alternative but to comply, and, as he did so, several Boers, still keeping him covered, arose from their concealment, and came towards him. Some two or three were men from the surrounding district, whom he knew by sight, but most of them were strangers.

“Who are you?” asked the leader crisply, in Dutch. “And where are you from?”

Colvin told him. The news that he had come straight from Cronje’s force in the field, and had witnessed several engagements, impressed them somewhat. They began to look at him with considerable interest and increased respect.

“Daag, Gideon,” he exclaimed, suddenly becoming aware of the presence of Gideon Roux among the party. The Boer came forward and greeted him as though nothing had happened. They chatted a minute or two together as to the local news and so forth. Then Colvin said:

“Well now, friends, I must bid you good-night. I am going on to Stephanus De la Rey’s.”

“You cannot go on to Stephanus De la Rey’s to-night,” rejoined the leader promptly.

“Why not?”

“Because you have to go with us—to Commandant Schoeman’s camp at Krantz Kop.”

This was a terrible facer, but Colvin was forced to accept the situation with what grace he could. At first he tried expostulation, urging every reason he could think of for being suffered to pursue his way. In vain. Even the magic name of The Patriot seemed to fail in its power here. The burghers got their concealed horses from behind the rocks and they started.

It was quite dark when they reached the camp, which had been pitched around Gideon Roux’ farmstead. How well Colvin remembered the last time he had visited this place—the discovery of the concealed arms, the squalid household and his doubtful reception, Hans Vermaak’s warning and its ample justification. Now, as he saw the place again, under circumstances suspiciously like being made a prisoner of, a great despondency came upon him. He had beguiled the journey chatting with his escort, or captors, or whatever they were, and learned that for the past day or two fighting had been going on with the British forces out beyond Schalkburg, and that a few prisoners had been taken, most of whom would be forwarded to Bloemfontein. There was one, however, who was exceedingly obstreperous. If he was not careful he would very likely be shot.

They were challenged by vedettes as they reached the outskirts of the camp, but allowed to pass through. In the darkness Colvin could make out a few waggons and several tents pitched without any particular regard to order. In one or two of these some men were singing Dutch hymns in a slow, droning tone—but, early as it was, most of the burghers had turned in for the night. Once, as he passed the farmhouse, he thought to detect an English voice, proceeding from the stable, cursing and swearing, its owner the while kicking vigorously against the door, and supposed this must be the obstreperous prisoner they had been telling him about. He was shown to a tent, which he found he had to share with three other men, who were already asleep.

The Commandant? Oh, he could not be disturbed that night. He was asleep. So there was nothing for it but to put the best face on things. And yet it was not with pleasant foreshadowings that Colvin Kershaw at last closed his tired yet sleepless eyes in the burgher camp, realising that he was something very like a prisoner.

Chapter Nine.

Commandant Schoeman’s Camp.

“Who on earth is making all that row?” was Colvin’s first remark on awakening from sleep the following morning to the well-worn strains of “Ta-ra-Boomdeay” bellowed in stentorian tones, yet somewhat muffled as though by distance and obstruction.

“It must be the Englishman—one of the prisoners,” yawned another occupant of the tent, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. “He is very violent and noisy, so they have shut him up in Gideon Roux’ stable away from the others.”

“Is he mad?”

“No. Only violent. Wants to fight everybody with his fists.”

“Nouwja. I would cure that ‘madness’ with a sjambok if I were the Commandant,” growled another, sitting up and listening. “He gives all the trouble he can.”

The hour was that of sunrise, and although midsummer, the air at that altitude was raw and chilly when Colvin turned out, shivering, to look after his horse, which had been picketed among the steeds of the burghers. As he did so the sun, mounting above the surrounding heights into the fresh clear air, seemed to shed around a new hope, to light up a new exhilaration in his mind. His own atmosphere would clear, even as the dewy mists of night had done before the great flaming luminary. He would now seek out the Commandant, explain matters, and resume his way. And having so decided, he was straightway confronted by a couple of burghers summoning him to the presence of that official without delay.

Commandant Schoeman was an elderly man with a hard, wooden-faced expression. He wore a straight lank beard, a chimney-pot hat, once white, and weather-beaten moleskin clothes, which looked as if they had not been off him for a month, which indeed was very near the truth. He was a Boer of the most unprogressive type, and as entirely dissimilar to one of the stamp of Stephanus De la Rey as could possibly be imagined. He was lacking in the good qualities of Andries Botma, who, however fiery and perfervid as a patriotic orator, was a kindly and courteous gentleman beneath. This man was brusque and uncouth, and cordially hated everything English, both in season and out of season.

He was seated in his tent as Colvin came up. The flaps were folded back so that those surrounding him who could not find room inside could still assist at what was going on in the way of official business. These consisted almost entirely of Boers holding subordinate commands under him. They wore their bandoliers, and their rifles lay on the ground beside them.

“Daag, Mynheer Commandant,” said Colvin, mindful of the way in which a greater than this had received a less formal mode of address.

“Daag,” replied Schoeman curtly, tendering a cold lifeless paw, and just touching the other’s outstretched hand.

The same ceremony was gone through with the others. Two old acquaintances Colvin recognised—Swaart Jan Grobbelaar and old Sarel Van der Vyver. These responded to his greeting characteristically—the first showing his tusks with a sort of oily, half-satirical grin, the other infusing a heartiness into his reply, and then drawing back as though half-frightened. There was a third present, however, whom he recognised—recognised, moreover, with some astonishment—Morkel, the Civil Commissioner’s clerk.

“Hallo, Morkel!” he exclaimed in English. “I never expected to see you. Why, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I am acting as secretary for the Commandant,” answered Morkel, making believe to be wondrously busy with some papers on the rough wooden table in front of him. His momentary embarrassment was not lost upon Colvin, nor a look he fancied he detected, warning him not to ask questions.

“I do not know why we need talk English here,” said the Commandant curtly. “Sit.”

Colvin obeyed, and subsided on to the floor of the tent by Swaart Jan, who made room for him, at the same time offering his tobacco bag, for they were all smoking. The great man and his “secretary” were the only ones who occupied seats, and these consisted of inverted packing-cases. The rest squatted primitively on mother earth.

Then turning to Colvin, the Commandant began to put him through a pretty close cross-examination, causing Morkel to take down the answers, partly with a view to impressing the others with his magisterial dignity, partly from a genuine motive, for he was an illiterate man, and had all the suspiciousness which characterises such. He questioned Colvin with regard to all as to which he had been an eye-witness when with Cronje’s force, and with regard to a great deal as to which he had not, the others listening with vivid interest.

And here Colvin began to feel himself in somewhat of a quandary, remembering the parting injunctions and warnings of Andries Botma. The latter had especially cautioned him against revealing matters even to the burghers on this side of the Orange River, and now the warning rose clear in his mind. Who could say that there might not be spies among those here present, or, at any rate, but lukewarm adherents of the Republican cause? And the result of such misgiving was that his answers were somewhat constrained, and to the distrustful ears of the Boer Commandant more than suspicious.

“Be careful, Englishman,” said the latter bluntly. “You are telling us the truth, are you? You had better tell the truth—oh, much better.”

The rudeness of the other’s words and manner angered Colvin, but he yielded to the expediency of restraining too great a manifestation of resentment.

“Look, Mynheer Commandant,” he said. “I have been courteously received by His Honour the President, I can call Andries Botma my friend and Piet Plessis’”—and he named half a dozen other prominent Transvaal officers—“but it has remained to me to return here to be called a liar by a man of whom I never heard before.”

“All Englishmen are liars,” interpolated a grim old burgher on the opposite side of the tent, spitting on the ground. Schoeman, however, received the reply with a wooden-faced silence. But Colvin did not miss a look of dismay and warning darted at him by Morkel, and at the same time, with anything but satisfaction, he realised that he had probably made a deadly enemy of the Commandant.

“Well then,” he continued, “the whole square truth of the matter is that Andries Botma particularly urged upon me not to talk of what I had seen with Cronje’s force, not even on this side of the river. Does that satisfy all here?” And he looked around the circle.

“Ja, ja,” assented most of them, Swaart Jan adding:

“It is true, Commandant Colvin is a true man. I know him. He is a friend of ‘The Patriot’. Besides, he is one of us now. He is going to marry Stephanus De la Rey’s daughter.”

“Quite right, Oom Jan,” said Colvin, with alacrity. Then, judging that this was exactly the moment for preferring his request, he represented to the Commandant that it was while on his way to Ratels Hoek that he had been detained and brought here. Might he not now proceed thither?

This request was backed up by most of the assembled Boers. Schoeman, beginning to think it would save trouble, was inclined to yield, when a contretemps occurred, one of those freaks of fate which have an impish and arbitrary way of skipping forward just at the right moment to divert and ruin the course of human affairs when such course is beginning to run smoothly. A considerable hubbub had arisen outside; curses and threats in Dutch and English, with the sound of scuffling, and, over and above all, a voice lifted in song, bellowing stentoriously, if somewhat jerkily:

“Ta-ra-ra-ra Boomdeay! Oom Paul op een vark gerij, Af hij val en rier gekrij, Toen klim op en weg gerij.”

The concluding words were hurled, so to say, right into the tent, for a group of burghers had appeared, and in their midst was the singer. The latter was receiving somewhat rough usage—though, truth to tell, he was bringing it upon himself. His arms were tightly pinioned to his sides with a long coil of reim, and he was being hustled forward with varying degrees of roughness. But the more they hustled and cursed him the more defiantly he shouted his idiotic and, under the circumstances, insulting doggerel. Colvin, with dismay and consternation, had recognised the stuff and had recognised the singer, and, even before the latter had been dragged into sight, knew that it could be no other than Frank Wenlock. So this was the obstreperous prisoner? Well, Frank Wenlock could be pretty obstreperous, as he knew by experience.

“Still, man, still!” growled one of his escort, shaking him violently. Here again was an old acquaintance, in the shape of Hermanus Delport. But the big Dutchman’s face was considerably damaged, one eye being totally closed. Frank had been using his fists to some purpose. Now he let off a volley of perfectly unprintable expletives.

“You’d dare lay a finger on me but for this reim, wouldn’t you?” he yelled. “I’d plug up your other eye for two pins, and every man’s blanked eyes in this camp.” And more to the same effect.

“Still, man, do you hear?” repeated Hermanus, administering another shake. “The Commandant is speaking to you. Do you hear?”

“Is he? Well, then, I don’t care a little damn for Mr bally Commandant or the whole lot of infernal rebels and traitors in that tent. Aha, Swaart Jan! you may well look sick, you old liar; there’s a nice rope waiting for you. Old Sarel, too? What a hanging of rebels and traitors there’ll be by-and-by! And Morkel? Ja, you will dangle, too.” Then becoming alive to the presence of Colvin, he burst into a very roar of derisive hatred. “Good-day, Mister Kershaw—or should I say Commandant Kershaw?—the biggest blanked traitor of the lot. You’ll be blown from a gun, I should think.”

These ravings, uttered half in English, half in Dutch, were not without effect upon most of those within the tent. They had about concluded that the violence and insolence of this prisoner had reached limits.

“Let him taste the sjambok” growled the old burgher who had expressed the opinion antagonistic to British veracity. But Commandant Schoeman gave no sign of perturbation. Save for a stern and ominous look in his cold, snaky eye, he might not have heard.

“Frank—Frank! Do be quiet, man,” said Colvin earnestly. “Don’t make a silly ass of yourself. You are doing yourself no good.”

“Not, eh? I’d do you some good though if I could get at you; I’d give you the jolliest hammering you ever had. Look at Mani Delport’s mug there. That’s nothing to what yours would be, you infernal traitor.”

“It might not be so easy, Frank. But do be reasonable. How can you expect decent treatment if you will persist in behaving like a lunatic?”

“Would you be reasonable if you had seen your home sacked and gutted by a lot of rebels and traitors, and your mother turned out homeless, Mister Dutchman Kruger Kershaw?” snarled Frank. “No fear though. Your place wasn’t interfered with. You’re one of them, you know.”

Colvin was not disposed to deny this in the faces of those present, intending to use that very argument in favour of being allowed to proceed on his way. But he was deeply concerned on behalf of Frank. The fool was simply committing suicide. Yet—how prevent him? He had seen Frank very uproarious more than once, in his cups, but here that motive power was lacking. The silly chap seemed to have gone half off his head with racial antagonism. But his own endeavours to persuade the Boer authorities to that effect drew forth a renewed outburst from the man he was striving to befriend. The Dutch Commandant lost patience.

“Be still, Englishman,” he said, very sharply and sternly. “I am going to speak, and if you open your mouth again until I have finished, you will have that thrust into it which will quiet you. Well, then, you were treated no worse than others in your position until you brought rough treatment upon yourself. You have been as violent; as a drunken Bastard Hottentot, without his excuse. You have assaulted and struck our burghers, and you have only opened your mouth to shout out insults to His Honour the President and horrid blasphemies to Almighty God. There can be no place for such a man as you among our God-fearing burghers, and we are not going to release you while so many of our brave comrades are rotting on your English prison ships. It may be that you have not many hours left in this world, and I advise you to think over and ask pardon of Heaven for all your blasphemous words.” Then to the guards, “Take him back whence he came while we deliberate.”

“That for your cant, you cursed, whining old snuffle-nose,” yelled Frank, spitting in the direction of the Commandant. “You can shoot me if you like, but you’ll all hang—every man jack of you—infernal rebels and traitors. Hurrah! God save the Queen!” And thus vociferating, he was hustled away.

“Do not hold him responsible for what he says or does, Mynheer Commandant,” said Colvin earnestly. “I think his misfortunes have turned his brain. He was always excitable. We cannot hold a man responsible when he is off his head, can we?”

To this plea Commandant Schoeman made no reply. He turned a cold, fishy eye upon the pleader, then remarked to the others:

“Toen, Heeren. We had better discuss, under the guidance of Heaven, what our best course will be with regard to this violent and blasphemous prisoner. For yourself, Mynheer”—to Colvin—“you would doubtless prefer the rest and quiet of your tent—or to see if some of your friends are in our camp.”

Colvin promptly acted upon this more than hint. But with all his anxiety to reach Ratels Hoek, a kind of instinct on Frank Wenlock’s account reconciled him to a further sojourn in Schoeman’s camp. He suspected that Frank stood in grave peril of his life; and if so he must exert all and whatever influence he himself possessed on behalf of his friend and former comrade.

His instinct proved an accurate one, and his worst fears were justified. Not until near evening, however, did he learn that Frank Wenlock had been sentenced to be shot, and would meet his death at daybreak.

Chapter Ten.

The Net draws in.

It was Morkel who brought the news. Their deliberations on Frank’s fate had lasted for some hours, being interspersed with a sort of impromptu prayer-meeting or two—and in the result he had been brought before the Commandant again, and being asked if he had any thing to say in excuse for having repeatedly insulted the President, blasphemed Almighty God, and taken up arms against the Republic, part of whose territory this had now been proclaimed by annexation, replied simply by a savage renewal of all the abuse he had already been foolish enough to heap upon those in whose power he was. So he was condemned to be shot at daybreak on the following morning.

Not all had been in favour of that extreme measure, said Morkel. Swaart Jan Grobbelaar for one, and old Sarel Van der Vyver for another, had spoken on the side of mercy; possibly with an uneasy eye to eventualities. But Commandant Schoeman, who was a Free State Boer, and whose own position as a mere belligerent was secure in any event, had overruled them, and by that time to-morrow poor Frank Wenlock would no longer exist. “What can be done, Morkel?” said Colvin, very much moved. “Do you think they really intend to do it?”

“Dead certain,” was the gloomy reply. “You know the poor devil simply brought it upon himself. You saw how he behaved this morning, Kershaw. Why he was simply committing suicide.”

“Would it be any use if I were to try and talk over Schoeman? Might persuade him to let the chap off with a bit of a fright. I am in with some of the big bugs up at Pretoria, you know.”

“Not an atom of use,” said Morkel decidedly. “You are in fairly bad odour yourself, you see, Kershaw.”

“It’s ghastly. I can’t believe they really intend to shoot the poor chap. But, by-the-by, Morkel, how is it you are up here among them? I thought you were so rigidly—er—Imperialist?”

Morkel looked embarrassed.

“So I am—er—was, I mean,” he answered, speaking low. “But it’s all Jelf’s fault. He took on a fad to collect the state of feeling among the farmers, and was always wanting me to go round and find it out. I went once too often; for when Olivier and Schoeman crossed from the Free State, and the whole of the Wildschutsberg and the Rooi-Ruggensberg rose as one man, why they simply commandeered me.”

“But as a Government servant—”

“Ja—a fat lot they cared about the Government servant part of it. A man of my name could not be on the English side, they said. So they just gave me my choice—to join them or be shot as a spy. I was a spy, of course, they swore. They knew I had been sent out by the Civil Commissioner to find out things. So there it was.”

“But it’ll come rather awkward for you when all this is over, Morkel?”

“I’ll have to chance that. It, at any rate, is a chance, but the other was a dead cert. Maagtig! Kershaw, when you see half a dozen fellows with rifles step out, all ready to let daylight through you in ten minutes’ time, why you prefer the chances of the remote future to the certainty of the immediate present. If you don’t think so—why, you just find yourself in my shoes, and see.”

This was undeniable—and then the ci-devant Civil Commissioner’s clerk went on to explain that he was by no means certain that things were going to turn out so favourably for the English as had at first seemed probable. The Republics might get the better of it practically, in which event he would likely drop in for something worth having—anyway, he couldn’t help himself. Besides, it would have happened in any case, for the burghers had jumped Schalkburg and commandeered every man there who bore a Dutch name, as well as all the stores. But with regard to the De la Rey household Morkel could give no reliable information. He had heard that Stephanus and his wife were away in the Free State, but even that he did not know for certain, nor whether the girls were at home or not.

“But how did Frank manage to get captured, Morkel? Was he fighting?”

“No. They went to his place, and started in to commandeer all his stuff. You know what a violent beggar he is when his monkey is up—and he started punching heads by the half-dozen. What could he do against a crowd? The wonder to me is they didn’t shoot him then and there. But they broke up everything in the house, and turned the old lady out of doors and locked her own doors on her. Good job that pretty sister of his was away from home, for they were the lowest down type of Boer—of the Mani Delport sample.”

Both men puffed gloomily at their pipes for some minutes in silence. Then Colvin said:

“Look here, Morkel. I am going to have another try at old Schoeman. You must persuade him to see me. So cut along, old chap, and do so. By the way, if the worst comes to the worst, he must let me see Frank.”

“I’ll try, Kershaw,” said Morkel. “I’ll try my darnedest, but I’m not over sanguine.”

Nor was Colvin, and his despondency was fully justified when, after nearly an hour, Morkel returned. Commandant Schoeman flatly refused to see him that night, nor would he authorise him to hold an interview with the prisoner, or any communication whatever, on peril of the utmost penalty.

“The infernal old brute!” was the only comment Colvin could make.

“Yes, he is,” rejoined Morkel gloomily. “And now I must clear out—for he has a lot of ‘secretarial’ work for me to-night, he says. Well, we have done all we could, and if we can’t help the poor chap we can’t. It’s the fortune of war. Good-night.”

Left to himself Colvin sat for a while thinking hard, and as he did so his despondency deepened. Poor Frank! Was there no way out of it? His memory went back over the period of their acquaintance—over the old days when they had campaigned together as comrades—over the times they had spent together since, under more peaceful auspices—by what a mere chance it had come about that they were not much more nearly related. With all his weaknesses, Frank was far too good a fellow to come to such pitiable grief as this. What could be done? And still the inexorable answer—Nothing.

Rising in the sheer restlessness of desperation, he went outside the tent. It was nearly dark now, and the cooking fires of the camp were ablaze in all directions, and the deep-toned voices of the burghers buzzed forth on all sides. As he stepped outside, a figure looming out of the dusk barred his way.

“Stand! Go no further.”

“What is the meaning of this? You hardly seem to know me,” said Colvin.

“I know you, Mynheer Kershaw,” was the reply. “But the Commandant’s orders are that you do not wander about the camp to-night.”

“The Commandant’s orders?”

“Ja, the Commandant’s orders,” repeated the Boer. “Go in again, if you please.”

There was nothing for it but compliance. As he re-entered the tent, Colvin realised that he was indeed a prisoner, and guarded by an armed sentry. What did it mean? Why, simply that for any power he might have to help Frank Wenlock that night—by fair means or foul—he might as well have been in Patagonia or Pekin. More, a very uneasy feeling had come over him that he might ere long stand sorely in need of aid himself.

These precautions seemed to point that way too. Here he was as much a prisoner as the man to whom death would come with the morning light. It struck him in a passing way as singular that the men who shared this tent with him were not here to-night, and he was alone. Hour after hour wore on, and still he racked his brains. Once before he had saved Frank Wenlock’s life in the heat and excitement of warfare. He could not save it now. That wily old fox Schoeman had seen to that.

Colvin was very tired. The strain of the previous day had told upon him—the strain of those long night hours too. He could not have told approximately at what hour his eyes had closed, and a whirling round of confused dreams were chasing each other through his slumbering brain. Now he was back again in peace and quietness at Piet Plessis’ with Aletta, radiant and happy. Now he was at Ratels Hoek, but Aletta was not there. A cold blank void seemed to take her place, and then into it floated the form of May Wenlock, her face turned from him in horror and loathing, as though requiring her brother’s blood at his hands. Then he awoke with a cold start, wondering confusedly whether all that had happened the day before were but a dream—awoke to the light of another day, with the beams of a newly risen sun pouring into the tent—awoke to behold three armed burghers standing over him. Even then he noticed that the expression of their faces was grim and ominous, and that they replied to his morning salutation as curtly as possible.

“So! You are awake at last,” said one. “We were about to awaken you. You must come before the Commandant at once.”

“Before the Commandant?” echoed Colvin, still hardly awake. “By the way—the prisoner? What about the prisoner? The Commandant has pardoned him, has he?”

The men exchanged a very strange look with each other at the words.

“It is about the prisoner that the Commandant needs you, Mynheer,” said the spokesman. And Colvin’s heart sank. He was wanted to receive the doomed man’s last wishes, he supposed, being the latter’s fellow-countryman. Poor Frank—poor Frank!

“I am ready,” he said, springing up. “But—tell me. Are they really going to shoot him after all? Surely—surely not!”

The men looked more strangely than ever.

“You ought to know best whether that can now be done or not, Mynheer,” was the enigmatical reply. “Come!”

Colvin went forth with his guards—one of whom walked on each side of him, and the third behind. This was being under arrest with a vengeance, he thought. As they passed through the camp he noticed that the burghers were gathered in groups, conversing in very subdued tones, which at sight of him would become suddenly hushed. There was something solemn and cold-blooded about these preliminaries to the execution he was about to witness that got upon his nerves. As we have pointed out, he had witnessed many a ghastly and horrifying sight during the last few weeks. But this, he felt, was going to be more trying than any.

Commandant Schoeman was seated in his tent, surrounded by his handful of subordinate officers, exactly the same as on the day before. To-day, however, in addition, a few burghers were grouped outside the tent, the butts of their rifles grounded, as they watched the proceedings. But where was the prisoner? Where was Frank Wenlock?

A dire sinking gripped Colvin’s mind. Had they done it already? Surely the volley would have awakened him, or had he slept too soundly? Involuntarily he gazed from side to side.

“Stand there,” said his guard, halting him in front of the Commandant’s table.

The latter looked up at Colvin’s greeting, barely returning it; then he said:

“What have you to say?” Colvin looked fairly puzzled.

“To say?” he echoed. “I do not understand, Mynheer Commandant.”

“The prisoner Wenlock has escaped.”

Colvin started, and his whole face lit up with satisfaction.

“Escaped, has he? Well then, Mynheer, all I can say is, I think you are well rid of him. Frank is a good fellow ordinarily, but he can make himself most infernally objectionable at times—as yesterday, for instance.”

He thought it politic to make no allusion to the death sentence. But at heart he was overjoyed.

“You it was who helped him to escape,” said Schoeman, and the tone, and the look of fell menace on his face, suddenly revealed to Colvin that he was standing on the brink of a yawning abyss. It behoved him to keep his head.

“Look now, Mynheer,” he said, “I would ask how I could have helped him to escape when I never left my tent the whole night.”

“That we shall see,” rejoined Schoeman.

“But how could I have left it, when I was kept in it by an armed guard placed there by your own orders?” retorted Colvin.

“I know nothing of such a guard, and I gave no such orders. It is now time for prayers, also for breakfast. There are those here who are ready to prove that you helped the prisoner to escape. In an hour’s time I shall require you here again. I warn you, Mynheer, that unless you can disprove the statements of these, things will be very serious for you. Retire now to your tent.”

Escorted, as before, Colvin went; and as he went he reflected. The extreme gravity of his position became plain in all its peril. It occurred to him that somebody or other desired to be rid of him. Yet, why? He had no enemies in the camp that he knew of. True, he had somewhat wounded the Commandant’s self-esteem at first, but surely Schoeman’s vindictiveness would not be carried to such a length. Well, there was no telling. Either Frank Wenlock had been allowed to escape, in order that the charge of aiding and abetting might be fastened upon himself, or he had been quietly made away with—always with the same object. And looking at it in this light, Colvin realised the trap he was in, and that his own life was in very considerable danger.

Chapter Eleven.

To take his Place.

It was a curious court-martial this before which he was now convened, thought Colvin, the ridiculous side of things striking him, as an hour later he stood once more before the Commandant’s tent, having washed and got some breakfast in the interim. This old Dutch farmer, clad in greasy moleskins, and crowned with a weather-worn, once white chimney-pot hat, was his judge, with absolute power of life and death, and looked moreover as solemn as though he thoroughly realised it. Those others too, squatting on the ground, smoking pipes, and very frequently spitting: on their good word depended to a very great extent his own life.

“Do you confess to having assisted the prisoner to escape?” asked the Commandant. “It will save trouble and lighten the guilt upon your soul if you do.”

“Certainly I do not, Mynheer,” returned Colvin. “How can I have assisted any prisoner to escape when I was a prisoner myself?”

“Maagtig! Said I not that all Englishmen were liars?” grunted the old burgher, for the benefit of those within the tent.

Morkel, too, Colvin had not failed to observe occupying the same seat as yesterday. But Morkel had turned on a wooden expression of countenance, and avoided catching his eye. Clearly Morkel believed in the maxim anent self-preservation. He had a wholesome fear of drawing suspicion upon himself.

“We will first hear the testimony of Adrian De la Rey,” said the Commandant.

Colvin managed to repress the astonishment he felt as Adrian came forward. The latter differed in outward trappings from the other burghers only in the fact that his get-up was smarter. He, too, avoided Colvin’s glance.

“Tell your story,” said the Commandant shortly. But before the other had said half a dozen words, Colvin interposed:

“Excuse me, Mynheer Commandant. But in taking evidence it is usual and indispensable to take it on oath—to swear the witness to tell the truth. Now this has not yet been done.”

It was just possible some advantage might be gained by this formula being observed, but Colvin did not reckon it would amount to much. Morkel, however, put in a word in favour of the suggestion, and accordingly Adrian was sworn after the usual Dutch method, with his right hand held up. Then he proceeded to tell his story.

As one of the field-captains of the burgher force it had been his duty to go the round of the sentries. Two mounted guard over the place wherein Frank Wenlock was confined, namely, the stable at the back of Gideon Roux’ house. The door was locked with a strong padlock, and there was one window, which was iron barred, and fairly strong. One sentry was stationed beneath this, and the other before the door. When he arrived at the stable he was surprised that the sentries gave him no recognition, but, on examining further into the matter, he found they were both asleep. Moreover, he could hardly wake them, and when he did, they excused themselves by saying that the Englishman in the camp—not the prisoner, but the other Englishman—had given them a soepje out of his flask. His first thought being for the security of the prisoner—the witness had ordered the door to be opened. But the key could not be found. It had been in the first sentry’s keeping. Then having called several times to the prisoner inside, and receiving no answer, the witness had caused the door to be broken open. The prisoner had vanished.

This had happened at about twelve o’clock. But half an hour earlier he had met Colvin Kershaw wandering through the camp, and they had stood chatting for a while. Kershaw had told him he had been at Gideon Roux’ house, and was returning to his tent. After his discovery of the escape he, Adrian, had thought of arresting the accused, but had placed his tent under guard until the morning.

“The accused man says it was under guard all night,” said the Commandant. “Do you know anything of such a guard?”

“Nothing whatever, Mynheer.”

Now, indeed, the whole mystery was clearing up, decided Colvin, but clearing in such wise as would be disastrous, if not fatal, for himself, Adrian De la Rey was the prime mover then in this matter. Adrian had every motive for destroying him, and now Adrian had concocted this plot for his destruction. He saw through it now, and his heart sank within him. Schoeman and his crew would be willing accomplices. He had no friends here in this camp, and he knew, all too well, that no chance would be allowed him of communicating with those he had elsewhere. Now he claimed his right of cross-examining witnesses. At first the “court” was not inclined to allow this. Of what use was it? It savoured of the blasphemous. God-fearing burghers, who had sworn to tell the truth, and had called God to witness, could not lie. But he pressed his point and, being supported by Morkel, carried it.

Not much good did it do him, however, with this witness. Not all his cross-examination could shake this tissue of amazing lies which Adrian reeled off with a glibness which imposed on his hearers up to the hilt. Everything he had said he stuck to; doing it, too, with a sorrowful and against-the-grain air. This Englishman with all his lawyer tricks could not shake that honest and simple testimony, decided these unsophisticated burghers, and all his efforts at doing so only served to deepen the adverse feeling.

The two sentries were then called, and their testimony exactly corresponded with that of Adrian! They were somewhat heavy-looking young men—brothers, named Hattingh. Asked what the drink consisted of, they thought it was whisky. It was not square-face or dop? No; they were sure it was whisky. All Englishmen drank whisky; therefore, decided the hearers, the man who gave them the drink must have been this Englishman.

Both brothers had the same tale to tell, and they told it so glibly, so naturally, as to puzzle even the accused himself. They were of the type that do not make good liars—that is, in the sense of ability to sustain a series of consistent and circumstantial lies; indeed, had he been an impartial auditor of their testimony, instead of one vitally concerned therewith, he was forced to own to himself that he would have believed it. Such being the case, it was hardly to be wondered at if those who heard it believed every word.

These witnesses knew this Englishman, but not very well. They had seen him sometimes about the camp, and when he came up and chatted to them, and offered them something to drink, they were only too glad, for the nights up here in the Wildschutsberg were chilly, and a drop of something warmed a man.

And here we will digress briefly to explain that what would have been a very serious offence for all concerned, in the British regular, or even irregular forces, constituted just no offence at all in a Boer commando. For a Boer commando represents a chronic state of “marching-at-ease,” and the fact of a couple of sentries having a chat with a comrade and a “nip” out of his flask was nothing.

Both these men Colvin cross-questioned, not at any length, and in a conciliatory tone, and his main points were as to how they could be sure of his identity in the dark, especially as they had owned to being personally unacquainted with him. But the questions seemed genuinely to surprise them. For one thing, it was not so dark. The stars were shining very brightly. A Boer was not an Englishman that he could not see out of doors by starlight.

Then followed Gideon Roux, who testified that Colvin had spent at least two hours at his house the evening before. He would have left about the time named by Adrian De la Rey, but he could not say for certain within half an hour or so.

What had the accused to go upon? One after another of these men came forward unhesitatingly to swear away his life, for that is what he fully realised this mock trial to have for its object. The net was winding itself more fatally about him, and by nothing short of a miracle now could he be extricated from its entangling meshes. In Gideon Roux’ malignant face a gleam of devilish exultation seemed to lurk, as though he recognised that this was a safer, surer method of disposing of an obnoxious and inconvenient person than shooting at him in the dusk from behind a rock. Those around listened in solemn and impressive silence. The groups of bystanders had been steadily augmenting, and now nearly the whole camp stood crowded around, in a strangely picturesque armed assembly.

After Gideon Roux followed that worthy’s vrouw, looking quite as slatternly and rather more frightened than on that occasion when Colvin had partaken of her somewhat grudging hospitality. She emphatically confirmed all that her husband had said. The course the accused took with her was to remind her as impressively as he was able of the oath she had taken, and to suggest that she had better think well over her testimony lest she should have been mistaken. Sheer waste of words.

Colvin realised that he was doomed, and that every man in that camp believed every word that had been stated with regard to him. So when Hermanus Delport, and one or two others, came forward to corroborate that he had spent the evening at Gideon Roux’ house, he simply refused to waste time or trouble asking any more questions. What he would ask, however, was that the man who had mounted guard over him should be put forward the man who had kept him a prisoner all night—that was, from just after sundown—by the Commandant’s orders.

“I gave no such orders, as I have said before,” said Commandant Schoeman. “Were any such orders given, Heeren, by any of yourselves?” turning towards the other occupants of the tent.

“Nee—nee,” came forth the reply, universal and emphatic. “We know of no guard being placed over the accused during the first part of the night.”

Colvin had thought they had now got more than ample testimony—false testimony—to afford them all the pretext they wanted. But he reckoned without Commandant Schoeman. Said the latter:

“Mynheer Morkel. Will you kindly stand where the others have stood, and tell what you know of this matter?”

Morkel fairly started, a great look of dismayed consternation overspreading his features.

“But I know nothing about it, Mynheer Commandant,” he protested. “I have not seen or spoken to Kershaw since I begged you to grant him an interview last night.”

“Just so, Mynheer Morkel. But we want to know what passed between you and the accused man before that. Stand up. The exigencies of the Republics imperatively require it.”

This was a command there was no disobeying, so Morkel stood up, and was duly sworn. He would willingly have perjured himself up to the scalp in such a cause, but he knew it would be useless. There might have been spies overhearing all that had passed between him and Kershaw relative to Frank’s condemnation, or even if not there would be no difficulty in putting forward sufficient witnesses to swear that they had overheard it, giving of course their own version.

Bidden by the Commandant to state exactly what passed between himself and the accused with regard to Frank Wenlock, Morkel said that he himself had brought Kershaw the news that the other was condemned to death. How had the accused received it? He had been very much shocked and distressed naturally, the other having been a great friend of his—Morkel left out “fellow-countryman” just in time. But even with all his Court experience he made the mistake of expatiating on what had led to that friendship, realising with dire dismay, when too late, that he had furnished an additional motive for Colvin to act as was alleged.

“Did he not ask what could be done for the condemned man?” inquired Schoeman.

“He did, Mynheer Commandant. But—”

“He asked that question more than once?” interrupted the remorseless voice.

“Naturally, Mynheer. That was why he so urgently wished for an interview with yourself—to plead the cause of his friend.”

“And when he found that he could not obtain that interview, what then?”

“He was disappointed, naturally. But he said it would all come right. He could not believe that brave men—burghers fighting for their liberties and independence, civilised Christian men, could take the life of a man, especially a young man, by nature hot-headed and foolish, simply because he had made some rude and insulting remarks,” added Morkel, somewhat mendaciously, and indeed he seemed to have scored a strong point, for a murmur, not unsympathetic, went up from the audience. “The behaviour of Frank Wenlock was insulting and offensive, the accused had said, but surely not a crime worthy of death,” went on Morkel, waxing eloquent.

“That will do, Mynheer Morkel. You can now take your place again,” said the Commandant. Then to Colvin, “What have you to say? Now we have heard all the witnesses, what have you to say?”

“Very little, Mynheer. This is a plot. Adrian De la Rey has a grudge—a bitter grudge—against me, the reason of which does not matter. I believe he has manufactured the whole of this accusation. I believe he himself let Wenlock escape so as to fasten it on to me. Gideon Roux owes me money, and therefore would naturally turn against me. His vrouw looked frightened enough to satisfy even you that she was talking under compulsion. Hermanus Delport is a friend of and related to Gideon Roux. As for the two men who were on guard over Frank Wenlock, I believe they are under some extraordinary delusion and were speaking the truth as far as they knew. Morkel has stated the burden of our conversation quite correctly. But there is one witness we have not heard, and that is the man who turned me back into my tent last night.”

“There is no such man,” retorted Schoeman shortly. “It is all a fabrication. Well, then, that is enough. You came into our camp, and enjoyed our hospitality.”

“No, I was brought here by force,” interrupted Colvin.

“Still, still! Do not interrupt. You then took advantage of your position here to commit a hostile act—an act of hostility against the Republics, which have sheltered and shielded you—by aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner.”

“That is not true,” retorted Colvin. “Before God, in whose presence we stand, I know no more of Frank Wenlock’s escape, have had no more to do with it, than the President himself.”

“Do not add lying and blasphemy to your offence,” said Schoeman unctuously. “For the crime of which ample testimony has convicted you, you will take the escaped prisoner’s place. You will be shot at sundown.”

A gasp went up from the listeners. The proceedings had impressed them deeply.

“Not yet,” said Colvin, in a loud firm voice. “I appeal to the President. In the presence of you all I appeal for justice to His Honour the President of the Transvaal Republic.”

Schoeman smiled coldly. “His Honour is not our President—not yet. We are not of the Transvaal Republic. Do you wish to converse with a minister of the Gospel to prepare you to meet your Creator?” he added, still unctuously.

“Yes,” answered Colvin, unwilling to let slip any potential loophole, however minute. “Mynheer Albertyn, of Schalkburg, is a good man. Can he be fetched?”

The Commandant looked surprised, then conferred in a low tone with his subordinate commanders.

“He can be fetched,” he answered. “And as you have shown a proper frame of mind, instead of blaspheming God—as your fellow-countryman did—more time for preparation shall be allowed you. Instead of at sundown, you must be ready for death an hour after sunrise to-morrow. That will allow you some hours to pray with the predikant.”

“I am grateful for that, Mynheer Commandant. But now, hear me. Standing here, on the threshold of death, I proclaim Adrian De la Rey a liar and perjurer—a perjurer who has taken the name of the great God to witness his falsehood. Out there,” waving his hand in the direction of the far-off British entrenchments, “is possible death for any man—glorious for the patriot, but for the liar and perjurer what—? I see you, Adrian. Do not try and skulk out of sight among honester men than yourself. Well, then, look me in the face, liar! So sure as I stand here will death find you. Within three days death will find you out. Now, liar and coward, well may you grow pale.”

Adrian, white as a sheet, was trying to meet his denouncer’s gaze, but for the life of him could not at that moment. Muttering something, he slipped away. And Colvin Kershaw followed his guards to his final prison, well knowing that his hours were numbered.

Chapter Twelve.

Gert Bondelzwart’s News.

The town of Schalkburg was still in possession of the enemy. The Free State flag waved above the Court-house, and the “patriot” burghers, whether of the Free State commando or rebel colonial Boers, had things all their own way, and a great time generally, for they proceeded to “commandeer” all the necessaries of life, and a good many of its luxuries, from the temporarily conquered people, and to make themselves very much at home among them, mostly at the expense of the latter. For these the only thing to do, however, was to accept the situation, and make the best of it.

There was one to whom this course recommended itself, and that was Mr Jelf. He would laugh ruefully over his enforced suspension—ruefully because he was sure the Colonial Office would hold him responsible, since for what is a long suffering Civil Commissioner not responsible—and play whist with his superseder, a Free State attorney, who had been set up by the burghers to administer the law as Landdrost. But there was practically no law to administer in Schalkburg, for now every man did what was right in his own eyes, unless some misguided and commandeered native shirked or strove to abscond. In such cases the newly fledged Landdrost did administer the law, resulting in vehement contact between raw hide and the aboriginal cuticle.

Jelf was not a little anxious on the score of his absent subordinate, who had been away on one of those semi-official investigations what time the town was captured. He hoped Morkel had not come to grief with those fiery English aspirations of his; and then he would smile to himself as he reflected that such sentiments were patient of sudden metamorphosis under stress of circumstances. No, Morkel would turn up again sooner or later, he supposed.

He had felt very disgusted at the behaviour of Jan Grobbelaar. This was the ultra-loyal Field-cornet then! Stephanus De la Rey, at any rate, had been an honest man, but Swaart Jan was a snake in the grass, and he, Jelf, had not hesitated to tell him so when he had ridden up beside Commandant Schoeman to demand the keys of the offices. But the little man had merely shown his tusks in a deprecating grin. “What would Mynheer have?” he said. “A man must march with his own countrymen. But Mynheer and he need be none the less friends for all that.”

As a matter of fact, Jelf had no reason to complain of his treatment under the circumstances. He was a good-natured man and not unpopular among the Dutch farmers of his district, and now these showed him respect and consideration.

Schalkburg just then comprised another inmate, and that a personage not the least important in the unfolding of our narrative, namely, Aletta De la Rey. She was staying with some relatives, an old couple who had retired from farming, to settle in the township on their own erf; and she had been obliged to seek shelter with them because on reaching home she had found that all the family were away in the Free State—a fact which had not been known to her, partly owing to her sudden and unexpected homeward move, partly that, thanks to the war, communication was frequently interrupted and always uncertain. But, as it happened, she welcomed the discovery with a feeling of intense relief. She had shrunk in anticipation from the questionings of her own family, now she would be spared these for a while longer. The Van Heerdens, her relatives, were a very old couple with hardly an idea outside their own erf and the covers of the family Bible. They were not likely to bother her with inconvenient questions.

Poor Aletta! She had indeed gone through the fire since the day of that horrible discovery. What a bright Paradise had she been living in—and now? Her ideal vanished—her idol fallen and shattered—what more did life hold out for her! Ah, to think of it, this man who had been to her as a very god—who was not as other men—who had come into her life to take possession of it, and to whom she had surrendered, a willing, happy captive—for him to deceive her, to make her the victim of such a commonplace, petty form of deception! Surely that discovery had killed her love.

Why had he done it? It was so needless, so commonplace, so cruel! Why had he left her to endure the agony of apprehension on his account for days, for weeks—the while he was safe and sound within a few hours of her, carrying on this intrigue? She would rather—infinitely rather—that that agony had met with its worst and fatal fulfilment, that he had been brought back to her dead. To think that he, her god, could stoop so low, could place himself in such a contemptible, pitiable light before her. That look in his face as he met her glance—the startled shame and consternation at being found out—that would haunt her to her dying day.

Why had he ever professed love for herself? And having done so, why—if he had found such profession premature—did he not say so openly? It would have been a cruel insult; still she thought she could have borne it better. She had never grudged May Wenlock her bright physical attractions; indeed, she had recognised them openly and to the full. She remembered how often they had laughed over old Tant’ Plessis’ favourite saying as to May being the only English girl, and now she concluded that the old lady was not such a fool as they had supposed. Possibly nationality did count in the long run, though, where love was the consideration, Aletta, for her part, could not understand how nationality should make a hairsbreadth of difference. And, again, she thought, she herself was not even decent-looking—well she remembered how that statement had been received by him to whom it was addressed—whereas this English girl was bounteously dowered by Nature with outward attractiveness, and, after all, she supposed this was what weighed with men. Well, she must get this man out of her mind. With time and determination she supposed it could be done. She must grow to regard him as one who had passed out of her life, as one who was as completely dead to her as though actually so to this world, and must contemplate the fact with equanimity, with utter indifference. Oh yes, that would come—in time.

Would it? This was a very changed Aletta now, and the merry, happy, spontaneous peal of laughter was never now heard—even the faint and ghostly semblance of it but seldom. The sweet, bright, radiant spirits seemed to have found a grave. Yes, on the whole, perhaps it was as well that these relatives of hers were too old, and other people too preoccupied with the movement of events around, to notice the difference.

“Missis, I have something to say,” exclaimed a voice in Dutch. Looking up, Aletta saw a tall, ragged, travel-worn looking yellow man. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the catch of the garden gate. She came quickly down the garden path to meet him, realising as she did so, that her walk was somewhat unsteady. For in the man who had thus suddenly broken in upon her meditations she recognised Colvin’s Griqua servant, Gert Bondelzwart.

“I have dreadful news for you, Missis,” jerked forth the latter, his voice shaking with excitement. “They are—going to shoot him!”

Aletta could feel her cheeks grow pale and icy.

“Who is going to shoot whom?” her bloodless lips managed to gasp forth.

“Baas Colvin. Die Boeren mensche,” he answered. “Ja, they have sent in now for the predikant to come out to the Baas. He is to be shot to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, good God!”—No, she must not faint, she must act. “Where, Gert?” she went on. “Where?”

“At Krantz Kop, Missis. Gideon Roux’ place—Schoeman’s commando.”

“Has Mynheer started yet? Quick! Say.”

“Nee, Missis, not yet. Four burghers came to escort him out, and they have off-saddled while the predikant is inspanning. Oh, mijn lieve Baas—mijn lieve Baas! What can be done, Missis? What can be done?”

The fellow was actually weeping. Even in the agony of the moment the thought flashed through Aletta’s mind that this man could command such devoted attachment from even a Hottentot.

“What can be done!” she repeated. “This is what you have to do, Gert. Saddle up the rooi-schimmel there in the stable. Put a man’s saddle on him, for you will have to ride him, and come round with me to the predikants house—now at once.”

“Ja, Missis.” And Gert departed with willing alacrity. Aletta ran quickly to her room. A couple of minutes sufficed for her to get into such travelling attire as she deemed necessary. But one article of her outfit where with she provided herself would have struck with wild amazement and misgiving anyone who should have seen her. She felt devoutly thankful that the old couple had toddled off to exchange gossip with a neighbour, for not only had she the house to herself, but was spared the vexation and delay of explaining her movements.

Mynheer Lukas Albertus Albertyn, V.D.M. resident minister of the Dutch Reformed Church at Schalkburg, was a fair type of the average country predikant, which is to say that he performed all the duties of his office with ordinary conscientiousness, had a keen eye to the customary emoluments of the said office, both in currency and in kind, and was regarded with veneration by the female side of his flock, and the older and less progressive of the male. His political sympathies were all with his own countrymen and the cause of the Republics, and his outward appearance we know, for we have already made his acquaintance during the opening event of this narrative—at the political meeting gathered to hear the fervid oratory of Andries Botma, to wit.

Mynheer was seated in his dining-room snatching a hasty lunch prior to setting forth upon his errand of mercy. Truth to tell, he was rather a puzzled predikant at that moment. What on earth did they want to shoot this Englishman for? He was well known to many of them, was in sympathy with them, too, and moreover was engaged to the daughter of one of their most prominent burghers. Again, it was odd that an English man should send for him at such a time. Englishmen of Colvin Kershaw’s class, when they did not hanker after Popery, scoffed at all religion, was Mynheer’s experience. There was an English predikant at Schalkburg, too—one who set up candles and brazen idols, and called those of the Reformed creed ugly names—why did this Englishman not send for him?

Perhaps because of the candles and idols. And at this point Mynheer’s reflections were suddenly and somewhat unceremoniously interrupted, for a quick knock sounded on the door-panel, followed by the entrance of its perpetrator almost before he had time to call out “Come in!”

“Why, Aletta!” he exclaimed. And then the words of welcome died in his throat. This girl was engaged to the Englishman who was to be shot on the following morning!

“I am going out to Krantz Kop with you, Mynheer.” she began. “I know you will not refuse me a seat in your trap—remembering”—and her voice was caught back by a sob, which, however, she manfully suppressed.

“But, Aletta, my child, only think. You can be of no use, I fear. Had you not better resign yourself to the will of the Almighty and remain at home and pray—while there is yet time?”

Hollow sounding as this commonplace was—claptrap even—it had asserted itself as a mere veil to mask the speaker’s own feelings. Anti-English or not, he was a good-hearted man, this predikant, and then, too, Aletta had been one of the most brilliant and satisfactory of his confirmees. He had a great partiality for her.

“Nee, Mynheer,” she answered, “the time for mere praying has not yet come. And even if it had, I must see him once more. Don’t you understand? But if you refuse me, I can still go by myself. I have a horse here, and I will ride all the way, even if I kill the animal.”

Her quick, eager decisiveness, the utter misery depicted in her face, showed him that here was no mere weak girl to be reasoned with and advised, but a resourceful, determined woman. Here was a side to Aletta De la Rey’s character which was a revelation to the worthy predikant.

“Well, well, of course you must go with me, my child,” he answered very kindly. “They are nearly ready for us.”

“I have just time to write a line to my father,” said Aletta, moving to a writing table without ceremony. This was no time for trivial observances she felt. She dashed off a few hasty lines, hasty but emphatic, and thoroughly lucid and to the point. Her father was not very far from the Free State border. By an effort he might arrive in time, and his influence was great.

The predikant’s Cape cart was already inspanned, and the attendant burghers, who were seated in their saddles, stolidly waiting, saluted her as she appeared. Gert Bondelzwart, too, was all ready.

“Gert,” she said in a low tone, “you know your shortest, straightest way. Do not lose a minute, even if you kill the horse. A minute may mean a life remember. No one will attempt to stop you, for I have put that upon the letter which will open a way for you anywhere.”

“Ja, Missis,” said Gert, and away he went. Then she got into the cart beside Mynheer, and they, too, started.

Chapter Thirteen.

At the Price of herself.

Up till now Aletta had asked no questions. She had accepted Gert’s assurance, of which the man’s obvious distress was sufficient confirmation. Her quick-witted, practical nature had asserted itself. That was no time for questions. She must act, and that promptly. Now, however, that they were well on their way, and covering the ground at the best pace the predikants excellent horses could put on, she reckoned the time had come to know more. Why was Colvin Kershaw to be murdered—for it was murder she declared? What had he done?

But Mynheer could not tell her much beyond the bare facts of the case as he knew them, for the burghers who had come to fetch him had been extremely reticent.

“Helping a prisoner to escape. But that is not a thing to shoot a man for,” she said. “Oh, I will plead with the Commandant, and you will, too, will you not, Mynheer? Ah, if only father were here, they would not dare do it then. But—who was the prisoner, and did he escape?”

“He escaped—yes. It was Frank Wenlock, and he was to be shot for insulting the President and the patriot cause, and assaulting one of the burghers. He was very violent, and very blasphemous—Ja, that I can quite believe, for did not he and some of the worst characters in Schalkburg disturb our service one evening at Nachtmaal time, by ringing the bell which hangs outside, and running away? And he gets drunk and rowdy when he comes into the town. No, he is a bad character. Kershaw ought not to have exchanged his life for the life of such a man as that.”

They conversed in English so that Mynheer’s native groom might not understand. The burgher escort, too, were mostly close to the vehicle.

So it was for Frank Wenlock’s sake that Colvin was throwing away his life, thought Aletta. Mynheer had spoken truly indeed, as to the vast disparity of such an exchange. But—he was May’s brother. That explained it all. How Colvin must have loved that other girl, to make the greatest sacrifice that human being can make—for her sake! And the thought had a kind of hardening effect upon Aletta, for she was but a woman after all, not an angel. Why should she continue to pour out her love upon one who had proved so faithless? Only an hour or two ago she had been telling herself that he was practically dead to her. Yet the moment she had heard that he was soon likely to be actually so, here she was moving Heaven and earth to save him, or, at any rate, to see him once more. Well, she would still do all she could to save him, but she would not see him again, in any event. No, from that resolve she would not swerve.

“But how did he get to Krantz Kop, Mynheer?” she said, in continuation of her thoughts. “He was at Pret— Johannesburg when I saw him last.”

“They say he had come from Cronje’s force, and had seen a lot of the fighting near Kimberley. I don’t know this Schoeman, but Jan Grobbelaar and the others ought to be able to do something for him between them.”

“He had been with Cronje’s force, then?” echoed Aletta, as though a new idea had come to her. But it was quickly dashed. He had had plenty of time to have gone there afterwards, after that day when she with her own eyes had seen him making love to May Wenlock. With her own eyes! There was no getting round that fact.

And the hours wore on, bringing these two nearer and nearer to their sad and mournful goal.

Night had fallen upon the burgher camp at Krantz Kop, and most of its inmates, habituated to rising with the sun and retiring with the going down of the same, or not long after it, were in the land of dreams. They were under no fear of surprise, for besides the fact of their sentries being well posted there was a strong commando, with artillery, entrenched below on the outer slope of the mountains, and between them and the far British lines. So the camp slumbered in peace and security.

In one tent, however, a light was still burning, throwing the shadows of men—huge, distorted, grotesque, out upon the canvas. Adrian De la Rey and his two now boon companions—Gideon Roux and Hermanus Delport—sat within. A bottle of dop, the contents of which had nearly reached vanishing point, stood on a waggon box in the centre.

“Toen, Adrian!” the last of these was saying. “All is going well now. The Englishman will be out of your way to-morrow for ever—out of all our ways, hey, Gideon? We will come to your wedding soon, ou’ maat—when we have shot a few more of these cursed English. Do you think Oom Stephanus will be glad to see us?”

“Finish up, and go away and sleep,” growled Adrian, pushing the bottle towards him, “or you’ll be too shaky for anything in the morning, both of you. You’ll miss him at ten paces, like you did before at two hundred.”

“Nee, kerel, nee. But that was in the dark,” replied Hermanus, grabbing the bottle and his tin pannikin, which rattled against the glass neck in the drunken shakiness of his big hand.

“Maagtig! leave some for me, Mani,” cried Gideon Roux, striving to wrest the bottle from the other. By the time he had succeeded there was precious little in it, and then this noble pair went forth, rejoicing in anticipation of the act of butchery which was to fall to their lot on the morrow.

Left to himself Adrian let fly an ejaculation of mingled thankfulness and disgust. He had indeed fallen, to have become the boon companion of such as these. They were of the very lowest type—hardly removed from the bijwoner class—drunken, coarse brutes at that; but now they were his accomplices in his act of murderous villainy—his tools. His tools? Yes, but they would soon become his masters.

No, that they should not—he told himself. Let to-morrow’s deed be done and over, and they would soon see that he was not a man to be trifled with. Reveal the conspiracy? Would they? And if so, who was going to take the word of two such shady characters as they? No, indeed. But after to-morrow he would turn over a new leaf—would make a fresh start.

A fresh start? What sort of a fresh start could be made with murder for its foundation? Yes—murder! Alone there in the silent night, alone with his evil conscience, the words of his victim uttered that morning—uttered, too, with the semblance of a prophecy—came back to him: “So sure as I stand here death will find you. Within three days death will find you out.” He shivered. Men on the brink of the grave were, he had heard tell, at times gifted with supernatural foresight. And then in letters of fire upon the darkness of his thoughts seemed to blaze forth those other words: “They who take the sword shall perish by the sword.” For “sword” read “bullet” Colvin Kershaw was to die in the morning, with several bullets through him. He, Adrian, had murdered him—by means of a fiendish plot, and abundance of false testimony. The next few weeks—months even—would bring with them a series of hard-fought battles, and then should he escape?

“Bah!” he exclaimed, pulling himself together. “These are all old women’s tales. I must take my chance, and I dare say it is as good as any other’s. What is the use of a college education if I get the funks over old exploded superstitions only good enough for those two pigs who have just gone out? I wish they had left me something in this bottle all the same,” holding it up, as though still vainly hoping, and then pitching it outside the tent. “Wheels!” listening a moment. “The predikant must be arriving. Well, much good may he do.”

He could hear the trap draw up at Gideon Roux’ house over the way and the sound of voices, could see a light or two, as the people were outspanning. Then he re-entered his tent, and again his thoughts reverted to the doomed man. “Within three days death will find you out,” the latter had said, and again Adrian’s heart failed him as he remembered how likely of fulfilment this prophecy was. Out yonder in the low country the British were advancing, and now their own forces were lying massed ready to give battle. “Within three days!”

A voice outside, drawing nearer, broke in upon his reverie.

“That is his tent,” it was saying. “We will see if he is there. Adrian!” and with the call the flap of the tent was parted and a bearded face appeared. “I have brought you a visitor, Adrian.”

The man made way for a second person, a tall, female figure wearing a long cloak.

“Aletta!” cried Adrian in amazement, as a throwing back of the hood revealed the features. “Well, and what brings you up here?” he went on in a hard tone, trying to hide the mortification, the jealous rage he was feeling.