ow his patronage seemed to dominate us. We
said our evensong rather northwards than eastwards; we scanned
the northern horizon as though seeking a sign. The wind blew that
way as we paced to and fro afterwards, and our thoughts went the
way of the wind.

At last I broke the silence. We were resting on a ledge of rock
then, smoking, staring away north-wards among the moonlit kopjes.
There he sat beside me, fair-haired and tall, strong and
rejoicing in his strength, always courteous but strangely dumb.
He was going to-morrow. Would he go without a revealing word?

'So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to
be.'

I paused doubtfully.

He turned to me, and his eyes sparkled as they looked into mine.
'Listen,' he said. Then he told me his heart. Little I knew what
it was. I trembled for my crusade, yet not without hope. I had
preached to him little, but I had prayed for him much. Now I
learned that his heart was as my heart, his desire as my heart's
desire, yet, like wine to water, like sunlight to moonlight. I
sat at his feet, so to speak, and listened on and on.

III

The next morning broke very brightly, yet there were clouds
enough on high to mystify its clear shining. There had been a
thunder-shower on the day before yesterday: our former rains had
sent on an advance-guard. We had finished our service before the
day grew hot, in the prime and cool of the morning. The place had
been kept very sacred all that service-time. No hoot of a motor-car
had scared the sleep of those lonely hills. Afterwards it was
different. People came out in crowds from Bulawayo. There was a
special excursion from the Transvaal, I believe, that arrived on
that day of all days. We had breakfasted by our camp-fire. Then
we came up the hill to the shrine once more, while the boys were
clearing up. 'Listen,' said Edgar. A stout Bulawayo bourgeois was
holding forth on the crankiness of Cecil Rhodes in choosing to be
so lonely. 'He might have considered the town and trade of
Bulawayo' seemed to be the burthen of his song. A pioneer shut
him up rather roughly. 'He knew best,' he said. 'Where would your
town and trade be if he hadn't cleared the path?' Edgar went up
to the old fellow, ruddy, stalwart, more or less spirituous,
indomitably good-humored. 'Tell me about it please, sir the
burial; you were here for it, weren't you?' The old fellow
complied with great goodwill.

Bareheaded we stood looking north while he told