Mangèlè was sitting on a stone in front of the doorway, in an attitude expressive of the deepest dejection. His head was bowed upon the arms which rested upon his bent knees, and the corner of his blanket was drawn over it as though he could not bear even the light of the gentle stars. He heard Nosèmbè’s footstep, and lifted his sombre face. For a few seconds the two regarded each other silently; then the girl flung herself to the ground at the man’s feet and broke into a passion of tears.
Mangèlè lifted Nosèmbè from where she lay and clasped her closely to him. Her sobs ceased, but it was long before either spake a word. The girl was the first to break the silence.
“It is not true that you have to go to Emjanyana.”
“It is true.”
“But you are not sick,” she rejoined, passionately. “You are stronger than other men. And you have done no wrong. How, then, can they put you in prison?”
“I am sick,” he replied, in a heart-broken voice; “my bones are filling with water. It is right that I go away. I am a dead man.”
“Then I will go with you.”
“No, that cannot be,” he replied, in a voice broken by emotion; “no woman can go to Emjanyana unless she have ‘the sickness’; and then the men and women have to dwell apart.”
“Moimamo,” she wailed. “You cannot leave me—your child quickens even now. You have paid the dowry and I am your wife. I will sit at the gate at Emjanyana until they let me in.”
Day was almost breaking when Mangèlè led Nosèmbè back into the scrub to the footpath by which she had come. They bade each other farewell, after arranging to meet on the following night in the same way.