Dismounting quickly, he went to the great chest where his provisions were
kept. Here he got out a little meal, a little mealies, a few roaster-
cakes. These he tied up in three blue handkerchiefs, and putting them into
a sailcloth bag, he strung them over his shoulders. Then he looked
circumspectly out at the door. It was very bad to be discovered in the act
of giving; it made him red up to the roots of his old grizzled hair. No
one was about, however, so he rode off again. Beside the milk-bush sat the
Kaffer woman still--like Hagar, he thought, thrust out by her mistress in
the wilderness to die. Telling her to loosen the handkerchief from her
head, he poured into it the contents of his bag. The woman tied it up in
sullen silence.
"You must try and get to the next farm," said the German.
The woman shook her head; she would sleep in the field.
The German reflected. Kaffer women were accustomed to sleep in the open
air; but then, the child was small, and after so hot a day the night might
be chilly. That she would creep back to the huts at the homestead when the
darkness favoured her, the German's sagacity did not make evident to him.
He took off the old brown salt-and-pepper coat, and held it out to her.
The woman received it in silence, and laid it across her knee. "With that
they will sleep warmly; not so bad.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97