"I--see," she said, in an odd, breathless whisper.
Burke spoke without looking at her. "It's just a cabin. He built
it himself the second year he was out here. He had been living at
the farm, but he wanted to get away from me, wanted to go his own
way without interference. Perhaps I went too far in that line.
After all, it was no business of mine. But I can't stand tamely by
and see a white man deliberately degrading himself to the Kaffir
level. It was as well he went. I should have skinned him sooner
or later if he hadn't. He realized that. So did I. So we agreed
to part."
So briefly and baldly Burke stated the case, and every sentence he
uttered was a separate thrust in the heart of the white-faced girl
who sat her horse beside him, quite motionless, with burning eyes
fixed upon the miserable little hovel that had enshrined the idol
she had worshipped for so long.
She lifted her bridle at last without speaking a word and walked
her animal forward through the sparse grass and the stones. Burke
moved beside her, still gazing straight ahead, as if he were alone.
They went down to the cabin, and Sylvia dismounted. The only
window space was filled with wire-netting instead of glass, and
over this on the inside a piece of cloth had been firmly fastened
so that no prying eyes could look in. The door was locked and
padlocked.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135