"Why, when did you come? I thought you were away at the front. Do come in." A superfluous request, seeing that she had already shut the door behind him. "Poor Gertie will like to see you."

"How does she bear it?"

"She is dreadfully down-hearted. At first I was quite alarmed for her, but I think the worst is over now. She was very fond of poor Jack."

"So were we all. Even such a leather-hearted curmudgeon as your humble servant."

"It is no fault of yours that the poor fellow is not alive at this moment," rejoined Laura, with warmth. "We heard all about it." All this time she had been furtively watching him, and noting, with some astonishment, his listless and dejected air. It was owing to no regret for his deceased comrade, she was certain of that. What could be going wrong with him?

"My dear Laura, I give you my word for it there was nothing to hear," he replied; and seeing that the subject was distasteful to him, she left him, to go and prepare poor Gertie for his visit.

Claverton wished he could have forgotten his own trouble as he stood in the presence of the young widow--this mere girl--sorrowing for the loss of him with whom she had begun to tread life's path. Very happy and bright had that path been to her--to them both--during those short two years. Very happy and peaceful would it have continued to be; but now he was gone--s.n.a.t.c.hed away from her suddenly by the merciless bullet of the savage foe--shot down in the dark forest. He lay, cold in his grave, far away in the wilds of Kafirland; and his gleeful laugh, and sunny glance, would gladden her heart and her eyes no more. No wonder a rush of tears came to her eyes, as she remembered under what circ.u.mstances she had last seen her visitor. And now she was desolate and alone.

Claverton held her hand in his strong, friendly grasp, and, when the first paroxysm of her reopened grief was spent, gently he narrated the circ.u.mstances of poor Armitage's last moments; how his last thoughts and care had been for her; how her name had been almost the last words upon his lips. Then he dwelt upon the dead man's popularity, and the blank his loss would leave in the ranks of his comrades, not one of whom but would have risked life to save him had they known before it was too late. And there was that in the gentle, sympathetic voice, which soothed and comforted the girl-widow, sorrowing there as one who had no hope.

"My bright-hearted Jack! I shall never see you again. Would that I had been more loving to you while you were here," she murmured, and, bowing her head into her hands, again she wept.

"That I am sure you could not have been," answered Claverton, gently, placing his hand upon her shoulder, and looking down on her with infinite pity. "Child, believe me, there are losses more bitter even than those inflicted upon as by death. Now, I must go. Good-bye--I am returning to camp now; but I shall come and see you again soon, and you must try and keep up your spirits."

She seized his hand. "You risked your life to save his. No--it's of no use denying it--you did. G.o.d bless you for it, and those who were with you. Tell them from me, when you go back, that I thank them. Good-bye.

G.o.d bless you--and Lilian."

This was too much. The chord of his own grief thus suddenly touched, vibrated loudly. With a silent pressure of the hand, he left her.

"Any message for Hicks?" he asked, as Laura met him in the pa.s.sage.

"What! Why, you are never going back to the front already?" answered she, gazing at him in astonishment.

"I am--straight. In an hour's time I shall be at least eight or nine miles on the road."

She saw that he meant it, and her woman's wit saw at once that something was wrong.

"I am very sorry," she said. "Do wait ten minutes while I write a line to Alfred. He will like to get it direct, and the post is such a chance."

A superst.i.tious foreboding took hold of Claverton's mind as he watched her bending over her writing-case at the other side of the room. This miserable war had made one widow immediately within their own circle, Heaven grant that it might not make two. It seemed that nothing but ill-luck had befallen that once happy circle since he had joined it--as if his presence had something baleful about it, and was destined to work harm to all with whom he came in contact. Ah, well, he had one more mission to fulfil, and then what became of him did not much matter. So Laura having finished her letter he bade her farewell, promising to deliver it as soon as he reached the camp.

"I tell you what it is, Claverton. You'll have to ride that animal rather carefully, or he'll never carry you all the way," remarked Payne, eyeing the horse critically as his rider, having hastily buckled the last strap, swung himself into the saddle.

"No, I've ridden his tail nearly off as it is. But I shall meet Sam on the road, and shall change. Good-bye, or rather, so long. You'll see me again in about a week--barring accidents."

Payne's heart sank within him. There wae a reckless, determined ring in the other's tone that meant volumes; and he shook his head sadly as he watched him ride away down the street. Then he walked slowly home, lost in thought.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

TRAPPED.

"When did he begin to go lame, Sam?"

"About two hours the other side of this, Inkos. I had to lead him all the way here."

Claverton bends down again to examine the horse's leg, and the light of the stable-lantern reveals an expression of the most intense and hopeless disgust upon his face. The stable is that belonging to the inn half-way along the King Williamstown road, the hour is shortly after midnight, and he has only just arrived. He has ridden untiringly, not sparing his mount, which indeed can hardly go a pace further; and now his other horse, which he has been counting on as a relay, is dead lame.

It will be remembered that he had left Sam on the road, with orders to rest his horse and follow him at leisure. Shortly after Sam had seen his master's back disappear over the rising ground, the animal began to go lame. Carefully the Natal boy examined his feet. There was no shoe loose, no stone in the frog--no. Poor Fleck had strained a sinew, and, by dint of much toil and considerable pain, the horse managed to reach the inn with his fetlock swelled to a ball.

"Sam, I must get on; and at once. Is there no one here who could sell me a horse?" The native thought a moment. "There are two men who came down from the camp to-day, Inkos, but their horses are used up. There's a Dutchman going up there, he has an extra horse. That's it; this one over here," and, taking the lantern, Sam led the way to the other end of the stable. Claverton ran his eye over the animal designated. It was a large, young horse, well put together and in tolerable condition, but it rolled the whites of its eyes and laid its ears back in suggestive fashion.

"Looks skittish," mused Claverton, as with a wild snort the animal backed and began "rucking" at its tether, then bounding suddenly forward, came with a fracas against the rickety crib, and stood snorting and trembling and rolling its eyes. "Half-broken evidently. What's the fellow's name, Sam?"

"Oppermann. Cornelius Oppermann, Inkos."

"H'm. Getting light," he mused, opening the door and looking skywards.

"Sam, I'm going to buy that brute anyhow, and go straight on at once.

Now you must wait till the young horse is rested, and take him back to Payne's. Fleck can stay here. And, Sam," he went on in a graver tone, "you are to wait there till I come back. Do everything they tell you; and if they send you to me, come at once and as quickly as you can. You see?"

Sam looked crestfallen. He had reckoned upon accompanying his master back to the war. But with the unswerving loyalty of his race towards those whom they hold in veneration he made no demur, and promised faithfully to carry out his master's wishes to the best of his ability.

Ten minutes later Claverton was standing on the _stoep_ of the inn, bargaining with an unkempt, sandy-bearded Dutchman, who, hastily arrayed in his shirt and trousers, stood rubbing his eyes with the air of a man just aroused from a sound sleep; as, indeed, was the case.

"You can take him for forty-five pounds," the latter was saying, having finished a cavernous yawn.

"Ha--ha--ha! Forty-five? Now look here, Oppermann," answered Claverton in a chaffing, good-natured tone. "You're not awake yet, man, or you'd remember the brute wasn't worth a dollar more than twenty. He isn't half-broken, to begin with."

"Twenty. Nay, what? You shall have him for forty."

"I rather want him, but I'm in no hurry," was the reply. "Here's thirty, down on the nail. Look."

He pulled out some notes, and the Dutchman's eyes glittered.

"Thirty-five?" he began.

"No. Thirty. Take it or--leave it."

"Well, well. Give me the money," and he held out his hand. But Claverton was not quite so "green" as all that.

"Here, Sam," he called out. "Look. The Baas has sold me the horse we were looking at for thirty pounds," and he handed over the money to the expectant Boer, thus making Sam a witness to the transaction. "Now go and saddle him up," he continued.

"Are you starting so soon?" said Oppermann, with surprise. "I'm going up to the camp--we might ride together. Wait a little quarter of an hour."

"Can't wait a moment longer. Look sharp."

The other disappeared with alacrity. He had been looking forward with some apprehension to his lonely journey across the hostile ground, and the escort and companionship of this cool, clear-headed Englishman would be a perfect G.o.dsend to him. So he soon hurried through his scant preparations, and by the time Claverton had settled with the host, and had saddled up, the Boer was nearly ready.

Two rough-looking fellows were talking to the landlord in front of the door as Claverton was about to start. They were the two referred to by Sam as having just come from the war.

"I say, Mister," called out one of them. "You're not going all the way alone, are you?"

"Yes."