“Free at last, Rachel, with our lives before us and nothing more to fear,” called Richard in his cheery voice, as he forced his horse alongside of hers. Then suddenly he caught sight of her face and saw that it was white and drawn as though with pain; also that she leaned forward on her saddle, clasping its pommel as though she were about to faint.
“What is it?” he exclaimed in alarm. “Did the flood frighten you, Rachel—are you ill?”
For a few moments she made no answer, then straightened herself with a sigh and said in a low voice:
“Richard, I have been so long among those Zulus playing the part of a spirit that I begin to think I am one, or that their magic has got hold of me. I tell you that in the roar of the water I heard voices—the voices of my father and mother calling me and speaking of you—and, Richard, they seemed to be in great fear and pain, for a minute or more I heard them, then a dreadful cold wind blew on me—not this wind, it seemed to come from above—and everything passed away, leaving my mind numb and empty so that I do not remember how we came out of the river. Don’t laugh at me, Richard; it is so. The Kaffirs are right; I have some power of the sort. Remember how I saw you travelling towards me in the pool.”
“Why should I laugh at you, dearest?” he asked anxiously, for something of this uncanny fear passed from her mind into his, with which it was in tune. “Indeed, I don’t laugh who know that you are not quite like other women. But, Rachel, the strain of those two months has worn you out, and now the reaction is too much. Perhaps it is nothing.”
“Perhaps,” she answered sadly, “I hope so. Richard, what is the time?”
“About a quarter to six, to judge by the sun,” he answered,
“Then we shall not be able to reach Ramah before dark.”
“No, Rachel, but there is a good moon.”
“Yes, there is a good moon; I wonder what it will show us,” and she shivered.