t-haunted; a yearly exorcising
of the restless spirit demanded? Again too melodramatic. A promise to
live on the estate, and on the estate alone? Far more probable.

Well, he'd give that fast enough. The veldt-desire had never gripped him
as it is declared to grip those who have found a home in Africa. Behind
the splendour, the pageantry, the vastness, he had always felt a hint of
something sinister, something cruel; a spirit, perhaps of evil, ever
wakeful, ever watching. Now and again a sound, a scent would make him
sick with longing, with longing for an English meadow, for the clean
breath of new-mown hay, for the fragrance of June roses, for the song of
the thrush, and the sweet piping of the blackbird.

He had crushed down the longing as sentimental. Having set out on a path
he would walk it, till such time as Fate should clearly indicate another
signpost. He saw her finger now, and welcomed the direction of its
pointing. At all events he might make venture of the new route,--an
Arabian Night's path truly, gold-paved, mysterious. If, after making some
steps along it, he should discover a barrier other than he had a mind to
surmount, he could always return to the old road. Fate might point, but
she should never push him against his will. Thus he argued, confident
within his soul. He had the optimism, the trust of youth to his balance.
He had not yet learned the deepest of Fate's subtleties, the apparent
candour which conceals her tricks.

He gazed out into the night, ruminative, speculative. The breeze which
had rippled across the Indian corn during the day had sunk to rest. The
darkened field lay tranquil under the stars big and luminous. From far
across the veldt came the occasional beating of a buzzard's wings, like
the beating of muffled drums. A patch of gum trees to the right, beyond
the garden, stood out black against the sky.

Nicholas Danver. The name repeated itself within his brain, and then,
with it, came a sudden flash of lucid memory lighting up a long forgotten
scene.

He saw a small boy, a very small boy, tugging, pulling, and twisting at a
tough gorse stick on a moorland. He felt the clenching of small teeth,
the bruised ache of small hands, the heat of the small body, the
obstinate determination of soul. A slight sound had caused the boy to
turn, and he had seen a man on a big black horse, watching him with
laughing eyes.

"You'll never break that," the man had remarked amused.

"I've got to