‘There!’ exclaimed Daisy, ‘my king is in trouble [216] ]again. I feel out of sorts to-night. It’s very close. Shall we go on to the verandah?’
‘With pleasure,’ said the young man rising. ‘But it’s as dark as pitch outside. Give me your hand, please, for fear you stumble.’
Hesitating for a moment, their eyes met, and with deepening colour she placed her hand in his, and they went out through the long window into the night. It was very quiet, and the darkness felt woolly and warm. No light glimmered anywhere, and the only sound was the cry of a solitary mopoke coming from amongst the spectral boles of the box trees.
‘The men are in bed, I suppose,’ said Daisy, glancing towards their hut.
‘They are away on the run,’
replied Fortescue, ‘drawing fencing stuff for the new line. But it’s a wonder we don’t see the blacks’ fire.’
As they stood leaning against the garden fence a soft continuous ripple, mingled with a sound like the sighing of wind through tall belars fell on their ears.
‘It’s only the river,’ said Daisy, ‘I’ve often heard it making that mournful noise when it’s rising over its banks. Shall we walk as far as the camp?’
It was a rough track, and more than once, but for the sustaining arm of her companion, Daisy would have come to grief over log or tussock.
But they got there at last, guided by a few dim sparks from expiring fires.