V

JACOB MEYER

More than three weeks had gone by when one morning Benita, who slept upon the cartel or hide-strung bed in the waggon, having dressed herself as best she could in that confined place, thrust aside the curtain and seated herself upon the voorkisse, or driving-box.  The sun was not yet up, and the air was cold with frost, for they were on the Transvaal high-veld at the end of winter.  Even through her thick cloak Benita shivered and called to the driver of the waggon, who also acted as cook, and whose blanket-draped form she could see bending over a fire into which he was blowing life, to make haste with the coffee.

“By and by, Missie—­by and by,” he answered, coughing the rank smoke from his lungs.  “Kettle no sing yet, and fire black as hell.”

Benita reflected that popular report painted this locality red, but without entering into argument sat still upon the chest waiting till the water boiled and her father appeared.

Presently he emerged from under the side flap of the waggon where he slept, and remarking that it was really too cold to think of washing, climbed to her side by help of the disselboom, and kissed her.

“How far are we now from Rooi Krantz, Father?” she asked, for that was the name of Mr. Clifford’s farm.

“About forty miles, dear.  The waggon cannot make it to-night with these two sick oxen, but after the midday outspan we will ride on, and be there by sundown.  I am afraid you are tired of this trekking.”

“No,” she answered.  “I like it very much; it is so restful, and I sleep sound upon that cartel.  I feel as though I should like to trek on for the rest of my life.”

“So you shall if you wish, dear, for whole months.  South Africa is big, and when the grass grows, if you still wish it, we will take a long journey.”

She smiled, but made no answer, knowing that he was thinking of the place so far away where he believed that once the Portuguese had buried gold.

The kettle was singing now merrily enough, and Hans, the cook, lifting it from the fire in triumph—­for his blowing exertions had been severe—­poured into it a quantity of ground coffee from an old mustard tin.  Then, having stirred the mixture with a stick, he took a red ember from the fire and dropped it into the kettle, a process which, as travellers in the veld know well, has a clearing effect upon the coffee.  Next he produced pannikins, and handed them up with a pickle jar full of sugar to Mr. Clifford, upon the waggon chest.  Milk they had none, yet that coffee tasted a great deal better than it looked; indeed, Benita drank two cups of it to warm herself and wash down the hard biscuit.  Before the day was over glad enough was she that she had done so.

The sun was rising; huge and red it looked seen through the clinging mist, and, their breakfast finished, Mr. Clifford gave orders that the oxen, which were filling themselves with the dry grass near at hand, should be got up and inspanned.  The voorlooper, a Zulu boy, who had left them for a little while to share the rest of the coffee with Hans, rose from his haunches with a grunt, and departed to fetch them.  A minute or two later Hans ceased from his occupation of packing up the things, and said in a low voice: