During the night the sky had become overcast, and now, as he rode along in the grey dawn, dark clouds were lowering to the very earth, and the mist swept in powdery flakes through the sprays of the bush. It was a thoroughly depressing morning, and the horseman’s reflections were coloured thereby. And through the chill drizzle seemed to echo the far-off tones of a sweet, low voice: “I can give you no comfort. You have given me the best of yourself, and I can give you—nothing.”
We allow that to sheep from disappointed love is something of a transition. Nevertheless, the incident which occurred at the shepherd’s kraal that morning must be narrated, because it is not without its bearing on the future events of our story.
“Now, Umgiswe, turn out, and let’s count,” said Claverton, making a slash with his whip at a couple of lean, ill-looking curs, which sneaked sniffing round his horse’s heels. “Eh—what’s that you’ve got there?” as the Kafir, having saluted him, began fumbling about with something on the kraal fence.
“Two dead sheep,” answered the old fellow, producing a couple of skins, with the air of a man who has triumphantly vindicated his character against all aspersions.
Claverton examined the skins narrowly. Having satisfied himself that their sometime wearers had died of disease, and had not been slain to appease the insatiable appetites of Umgiswe and a few boon companions, he proceeded to count out the flock. The score was correct.
“All right, Umgiswe; here’s some smoke for you,” he said, throwing the old herd a bit of tobacco. “But I say, though—whose dogs are those?”
The Kafir glanced uneasily at the curs aforesaid.
“A man who slept here last night left them. They are sure to go after him. He has not been long gone.”
“No,” replied Claverton, carelessly, “he has not been long gone, or rather they have not been long gone, for they are still here. Turn them out, Umgiswe.” For his ear had detected the sound of several male voices in the hut as he passed its door.