Chapter Ten.
The Great Secret.
“And ever with unconquerable will,
Bearing her burden, toward one distant star
She moves in her desire; and though with pain
She labour, and the goal she dreams be far,
Proud is she in her passionate soul to know
That from her tears, her very sorrows grow
The joy, the hope, the peace of future men.”
The speaker, as he finished these lines, recited half to himself, half to his friend, in a dreamy monotone, gazed again into the dark night sky above him, and fetched a deep breath—almost a sigh.
“Hullo, Bill!” remarked his friend by the camp-fire, in a brisk tone. “Breaking out that way again, are you? I haven’t heard poetry from you—of that sort—for weeks. I suppose all the hunting and hard work lately has knocked the stuffing out of you. A day’s rest, and you burst into song again. Who’s your author? I don’t seem to know him. Not Tennyson, is it?”
“No, old chap,” returned Bill, “it isn’t. It’s a new man—Lawrence Binyon—and he’s got some mettle in him. I think that image of his of our poor old earth staggering along with her load to some far-off goal, still, among all her tears and sorrows, buoyed with future hopes, is magnificent. Is it true, though? Is there that great secret, and does she know it?”
Bill Vincent and Ralph Jenner, the two men who sat by the pleasant camp-fire in the far South African interior, were old friends, now engaged on a hunting expedition towards the Okavango.
Nowadays you may find, scattered about that vast mysterious land, many scores of well-educated gentlemen knocking about in the veldt, often dressed in clothes and engaged in work that a British navvy would scorn, yet, barring a slight access of strong language, born of the wilderness, still gentlemen at heart, and capable of returning to civilisation without loss or deterioration. Here were two of them. The burnt arms of the two men, and their sun-tanned faces and chests and rough beards, their thorn-tattered breeches, and scarred old pigskin gaiters, showed plainly that they had been long afield. And the numerous heads, horns, and skins hanging in trees near, and bestowed about the wagon, sufficiently indicated the main object of their trip.
Their big wagon stood near; beyond it, lying at their yokes, chewing peacefully the cud, the great trek oxen rested. Six hunting ponies were carefully fastened to the wagon-wheels in full light of the camp-fires. Thirty yards away from the two Englishmen, gathered round a still bigger fire, were the native “boys,” some still chattering, some fast asleep. Round about, the camp was engirt with bush and thin forest of giraffe-acacia.
As usual it was a glorious night. Only those who have lain out month after month in the vast silent veldt of the far interior can realise the unspeakable majesty of the deep indigo void of the night heaven, sown with a myriad flashing diamonds, that looms above the wanderer. The airs were soft and sweet; the night was absolutely perfect. Almost complete silence rested upon the wild. Bill took a fresh ember from the fire and relit his pipe.