“Isn’t it glorious?” shouted the delirious man, as they came up. “I’ve got cool at last!”
“Yes, and you will soon be cold, poor fellow!” muttered Mr. Alston, as they hurried up.
They got him back into the tent, and in half an hour he was beyond all hope. He did not rave much, but kept repeating a single word in every possible tone, that word was:
Alice.
At dawn on the following morning he died with it on his lips. Ernest often wondered afterwards who “Alice” could be.
Next day they dug a deep grave under an ancient thorn-tree, and reverently laid him to his rest. On his breast they piled great stones to keep away the jackals, filling in the cracks with earth.
Then they left him to his sleep. It is a sad task this, burying a comrade in the lonely wilderness.
As they were approaching the waggon again, little Roger sobbing bitterly—for Mr. Jeffries had been very kind to him, and a first experience of death is dreadful to the young—they met the Zulu voorlooper, a lad called Jim, who had been out all day watching the cattle as they grazed. He saluted Mr. Alston after the Zulu fashion, by lifting the right arm and saying the word “Inkoos,” and then stood still.
“Well, what is it, boy? “asked Mr. Alston. “Have you lost the oxen?”
“No, Inkoos, the oxen are safe at the yoke. It is this. When I was sitting on the kopje yonder, watching that the oxen of the Inkoos should not stray, an Intombi (young girl) from the kraal under the mountain yonder came to me. She is the daughter of a Zulu mother who fell into the hands of a Basutu dog, and my half-cousin.”