“Have you heard anything that makes you afraid, Sihamba?”
“I have heard nothing,” she replied, “still I am afraid.”
“Then you are a fool for your pains, to be afraid of nothing,” I answered roughly; “but watch well, Sihamba.”
“Fear not, I will watch till my knees are loosened and my eyes grow hollow.” Then she went away, and that was the last I saw of her for many a weary month. Ah! Suzanne, child, had it not been for the watching of little Sihamba, the walker-by-moonlight, you had not been sitting there to-day, looking much as she used to look, the Suzanne of fifty years ago.
The marriage was to take place at noon, and though I had much to see to, never have I known a longer morning. Why it was I cannot say, but it seemed to me as though twelve o’clock would never come. Then, wherever I went there was Ralph in my way, wandering about in a senseless fashion with his best clothes on, while after him wandered Jan holding his new hat in his hand.
“In the name of Heaven,” I cried at length as I blundered into both of them in the kitchen, “be off out of this. Why are you here?”
“Allemachter!” said Jan, “because we have nowhere else to go. They are making the sitting-room ready for the service and the dinner after it; the predicant is in Ralph’s room writing; Suzanne is in yours trying on her clothes, and the stoep and even the stables are full of Kaffirs. Where, then, shall we go?”
“Cannot you see to the waggon?” I asked.
“We have seen to it, mother,” said Ralph; “it is packed, and the oxen are already tied to the yokes for fear lest they should stray.”
“Then be off and sit in it and smoke till I come to call you,” I replied, and away they walked shamefacedly enough, Ralph first, and Jan following him.