“We happened upon the bitter wells quite by accident. Alida took a fancy to this spot, so we here formed our camp. We never dreamt of having to depend upon the bitter water for our sustenance, for the well in the donga close at hand looked as though it could never run dry. The Bushmen soon became our fast friends. Alida spoke their language, and they used to bring their sick and hurt to her for treatment. In one or two serious cases I was called in, and, owing to the fact of fortunate recoveries resulting, I acquired the reputation of a great magician. This reputation I have never lost.
“For a year no two human beings were ever happier than we. Alida could use a gun quite as well as I, so I felt no uneasiness about leaving her alone when hunting took me far afield. The desert, after rain, is full of wholesome vegetable food, and with this the Bushmen kept us well supplied. We had no want or desire which we could not satisfy. Yes, that year was enough to atone for an eternity of pain.
“One thing only I dreaded—the possibility of Alida’s becoming a mother, and at length the day came when I knew that my dread would be realised. This was just a year after our union.
“Soon afterwards the land began to dry up, and it was then I should have escaped to the Great Lake. But I was new to the climate, and I could make no guess as to what was coming. I hoped against hope for rain, but the sun scorched fiercer and fiercer. Now and then the clouds came up to mock our misery, but no drop fell from them. One by one the water-places failed, and the Bushmen began to flock in to the bitter wells from every direction. All had the same tale to tell. The desert, which had been awakened to beauty by the kiss of the fickle sky, was falling back into its ancient, deathlike sleep. Until this present season it has never since awakened.
“The well in the donga close at hand held out long after the others had dried up, but it, too, began to show signs of soon becoming exhausted. The Bushmen still said that rain might come, and once, when the lightnings flickered on the north-eastern horizon, they held a dance to show their joy at the prospect of a deluge. But soon afterwards the air grew cooler, with a clear sky, and then the dwellers of the desert told us to bid good-bye to hope.
“The child was born—a strong, lusty boy—and Alida stood the ordeal bravely. But the sides of our well began to crumble in, and the water to become horribly less. At length, after we had spent nearly a whole day in squeezing a single pannikin of moisture from the sand scraped up at the bottom of the pit, we sadly moved over to the bitter wells. The child was then two months old.
“Alida sickened from the water at once. Strangely enough, it had no effect upon me. Then the kind Bushmen searched all over the desert for the ostrich egg-shells which they had filled with rain-water and buried here and there so that the hunters might not die of thirst when their pursuit of game had taken them far away from their camps. This stuff, horrible as it proved, Alida was able to exist upon, but the supply soon became exhausted, and then the bitter water made her more ill than ever. Her illness poisoned the child; it wasted quickly and died in cruel pain.
“Alida never lifted her head after the child’s death. By her wish I carried it over here for burial. At one time it seemed as though she might possibly become accustomed to the bitter water. Then, after unusually hot weather, its poison grew so virulent that even some of the Bushmen sickened. Alida became suddenly worse, and two days afterwards she died in my arms.
“All this happened twenty years ago. On these notched sticks I have kept a record of the slow time. Alida and the child lie buried beneath the spot where we are sitting now; I shall never leave the place. Every day the Bushmen bring me enough meat and water for my needs. Old Danster died of thirst when hunting in the desert, years ago.