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.