“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.