“I must take the baby,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Oh, no. I will not trust her to you.”
“Hilda, I insist.”
“And I insist, too. It is my place to take her.”
“But can you ride so?” I asked, anxiously.
She began to pedal. “Oh, dear, yes. It is quite, quite easy. I shall get there all right—if the Matabele don't burst upon us.”
Tired as I was with my long day's work, I jumped into my saddle. I saw I should only lose time if I disputed about the baby. My little horse seemed to understand that something grave had occurred; for, weary as she must have been, she set out with a will once more over that great red level. Hilda pedalled bravely by my side. The road was bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it. I could have ridden faster than she went, for the baby weighted her. Still, we rode for dear life. It was a grim experience.
All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds of black smoke which went up from burning farms and plundered homesteads. The smoke did not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England. The sun was nearing the horizon; his slant red rays lighted up the red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral glow of crimson. After those red pools of blood, this universal burst of redness appalled one. It seemed as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league with the Matabele. We rode on without a word. The red sky grew redder.
“They may have sacked Salisbury!” I exclaimed at last, looking out towards the brand-new town.