Then his dream-fabric tumbled about his ears.
Frikkie had ridden off to worship his beloved, and David and Christina, as was their wont, sat on the stoep. They' watched the figure of their son out of sight, and talked a while, and then lapsed into the silence of perfect companionship. The veldt was all about them, as silent and friendly as they, and the distance was mellow with a haze of heat. From the kraals came at intervals the voice of little Paul in fluent Kafir; David smiled over his pipe and nodded to his wife once when the boy's voice was raised in a shout. Christina was sewing; her thoughts were on Katje, and were still vaguely hostile.
Of a sudden she heard David's pipe clatter on the ground, and looked sharply round at him. He was staring intently into the void sky; his brows were knitted and his face was drawn; even as she turned he gave a hoarse cry.
She rose quickly, but he rose too, and spoke to her in an unfamiliar voice.
"Go in," he said. "Have all ready, for our son has met with a mishap.
He has fallen from his horse."
She gasped, and stared at him, but could not speak.
"Go and do it," he said again, looking at her with hard eyes; and suddenly she saw, as by an inward light, that here was not madness, but truth. It spurred her.
"I will do it," she said swiftly. "But you will go and bring him in?"
"At once," he replied, and was away to the shed for the cart. The
Kafirs came running to inspan the horses, and shrank from him as they
worked. He was white through his tan, and he breathed loud. Little
Paul saw him, and sat down on the ground and cried quietly.
Before David went his wife touched him on the arm, and he turned. She was white to the lips.