So she lay all that morning, and all that afternoon.
Again and again Gregory crept close to the bedside and looked at her; but
she did not speak to him. Was it stupor or was it sleep that shone under
those half-closed eyelids. Gregory could not tell.
At last in the evening he bent over her.
"The oxen have come," he said; "we can start tomorrow if you like. Shall I
get the wagon ready tonight?"
Twice he repeated his question. Then she looked up at him, and Gregory saw
that all hope had died out of the beautiful eyes. It was not stupor that
shone there, it was despair.
"Yes, let us go," she said.
"It makes no difference," said the doctor; "staying or going; it is close
now."
So the next day Gregory carried her out in his arms to the wagon which
stood inspanned before the door. As he laid her down on the kartel she
looked far out across the plain. For the first time she spoke that day.
"That blue mountain, far away; let us stop when we get to it, not before."
She closed her eyes again. He drew the sails down before and behind, and
the wagon rolled away slowly. The landlady and the niggers stood to watch
it from the stoep.
Very silently the great wagon rolled along the grass-covered plain. The
driver on the front box did not clap his whip or call to his oxen, and
Gregory sat beside him with folded arms.
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