And without further speech they descended the steps and walked quietly to the plain wooden bench where Rhodes in his lifetime sat often and dreamed his big dreams, looking away through the golden haze over the limitless scene.
“He was wonderful,” Brenda said... “His is the greatest name in South African history.”
Matheson, looking towards the distant mountains, nodded acquiescence.
“He died too soon,” he said. “That’s the worst of it... Had he lived long enough he would have linked up the south with the north. He won more territory for the Empire without bloodshed than any other man.”
“And then came the Boer war...”
Quickly he brought his face round and looked at her.
“Well, yes,” he said. “But I don’t suppose he could help that.”
“When I stand in front of his bust up there, and gaze away over this scene, and realise the greatness of him and the vastness of his ambition, I incline to believe that he could,” she said.
“Yes!”
Her words obviously impressed him. Involuntarily his mind travelled bade to Benfontein, to the impressions obtained from that visit, and the memory of the bitterness of racial hate he had discovered among the Dutch whom he had met.