Our place of refuge was a farm some twenty miles or so from Johannesburg—right out on the veld. I was dropping with fatigue¹. All the excitement and anxiety of the last two days had left me little better than a limp rag.

I kept repeating to myself, without being able to believe it, that our troubles were really over. Harry² and I were together and we should never be separated again. Yet all through I was conscious of some barrier between us—a constraint³ on his part, the reason of which I could not fathom⁴.

Sir Eustace had been driven off in an opposite direction accompanied by a strong guard. He waved his hand airily to us on departing.

I came out on to the stoep early on the following morning and looked across the veld in the direction of Johannesburg. I could see the great dumps glistening⁵ in the pale morning sunshine, and I could hear the low rumbling⁶ mutter of the guns. The Revolution was not over yet.

The farmer’s wife came out and called me in to breakfast. She was a kind, motherly soul, and I was already very fond of her. Harry had gone out at dawn and had not yet returned, so she informed me. Again I felt a stir of uneasiness pass over me. What was this shadow of which I was so conscious between us?

After breakfast I sat out on the stoep, a book in my hand which I did not read. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw Colonel Race ride up and dismount from his horse. It was not until he said “Good morning, Anne,” that I became aware of his presence.

“Oh,” I said, with a flush, “it’s you.”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

He drew a chair up beside me. It was the first time we had been alone together since that day at the Matoppos. As always, I felt that curious mixture of

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