XIII.

_HOW THE LETTER WAS POSTED._

JACK did not miss it. After an hour or more of anxious watching, the rolling cloud of dust appeared, but it was going from him. In an agony of desperation, he put his hand to his head to try to think. Yes, there was the post-cart almost out of sight, and altogether out of hearing,—nothing but a moving speck of cloud. No one but himself, thought Jack, would have been sure that it was the post-cart. No power on earth could make Vickel run in a straight line. He saw it now, as she circled round and round, he had lost his way.

His heart beat wildly, his breath was almost gone with the terrific speed, when a crystal gleam in the glowing sand attracted Vickel. Easy as it is for an ostrich to go without water in her native deserts, she loves it all the same; and now of her own accord, Vickel stopped to drink. Jack got down and drank also: the water was warm with the growing sunshine. Then he sprang upon her shoulder once again, and she waded through the little stream with infinite satisfaction.

When she stepped out again on the opposite bank, she shook the water from her wings, and covered Jack with a light and glistening shower, which both steed and rider felt infinitely refreshing.

Jack took the hood he had made out of his pocket and tied it on his ostrich. It answered well; he could let it down over her eyes and stop her when he liked. He gave up all thought of trying to make her run after the post-cart. But he had watched the way it was going, and now he started his ostrich in another direction, hoping as she circled round, he should fall in with it further on.

Away went Vickel with renewed speed, taking a wider sweep as she felt her capabilities expand with this unwonted exercise. The pace at which they were going was frightful. Mr. Wilton and his powerful grays crept like snails in comparison.

Jack was dizzy and sick, when suddenly he found himself, not behind the post-cart, but before it. Vickel was turning from the storm of dust it raised, when Jack let the hood drop over her eyes. She stopped at once, and Jack hung round her neck, more dead than alive. But he knew the critical moment had come; yet it was a mercy he had a breathing-space, or he might have fainted quite away. Vic was frightened at finding herself in the dark, so she lay down and ran her head in the sand, trying to rub her hood off. Jack stretched himself on the ground beside her and slowly rallied.

Great was the postman's astonishment when he perceived the little fellow, covered with dust and white with fatigue, sitting by the wayside waiting.

Jack got up as the tramp of the horses drew nearer and nearer. He waved his hat in the air and held aloft his precious letter. The postman drew up. Jack put the letter and the sixpence into his hand; but his voice was weak and faint, as he asked nervously, "Please, sir, is that enough for the postage?"

[Illustration: HER MAJESTY'S MAIL.]

The postman took the letter from him and read the familiar address. Every time he had crossed that sandy waste for years, he had been stopped to take a letter for Mr. Treby, Nottingham, England. He looked Jack all over, as he said kindly, "You have had a long and dusty walk to overtake me here. It has been too much for you, my little man. Your letter shall go all right. Where is your father?"

"He is gone on a long journey, sir," answered Jack dolefully.

"Then keep your sixpence; I will give you the stamp. But do not try to walk back in the heat, or you will drop by the way. Lie down under one of the bushes and rest. Have you anything with you to eat?"

Jack shook his head. "I'm not hungry, sir."

"Hungry! No," repeated the postman; "you are past that. Why did not you send that letter by your father's man—the old fellow was waiting by the kopjee for the parcel I promised to bring your father—eh?"

"Please, sir, I came from Jaarsveldt," put in Jack.

"Jaarsveldt!" exclaimed Wilton in astonishment. "That is miles and miles away. You must not think of trying to go back there alone; you are a great deal nearer your old home. Keep to my tracks until you come to the kopjee, and then I think you will be able to find your way, for I have often seen you there by your father's side watching for my coming. Now mind what I say, and eat this," the postman continued, taking out his pocket-flask and pouring some of its contents over a piece of captain's biscuit.

Jack found it wonderfully reviving. One of the passengers who had been listening to the conversation threw him a bit of bultong—that is, meat cut in strips and dried in the wind; and a hand was stretched out from the inside of the cart with a nice slice of watermelon. Jack lifted his big hat and bowed all round.

Wilton reiterated his charges.

"Please, sir," said Jack earnestly, "I am not alone; I have got my ostrich," pointing to the hole where Vic still lay, with her head well buried in the sand, in a paroxysm of fear on account of the horses.

Jack wondered why the men all laughed. He promised faithfully to do as he was told; and away drove the post-cart, leaving him in that vast solitude once more. He watched "Her Majesty's mail" crossing the wild desert plain until it vanished to a dusky speck.

The rolling sand on every side surrounded him like an earthy sea, for it was driven in wave-like heaps by a sudden gust. An ice-cold wind was driving before it a cloud so dense and black Jack trembled, for he knew that thunder was lurking in its inky folds. He ran to Vickel, who was rallying her spirits, after the apparition of those prancing horses, by browsing among the rosemary bushes. She too had felt the change. A little black and white bird flew fast from ant-hill to ant-hill, seeking shelter from the coming storm.

Vickel began scratching a hole in the billowy sand with unusual vehemence, as a troop of eland deer rushed past within a dozen yards of the rosemary bush she had been munching. Jack crept in terror to her side, as the "velderbeeste" dashed madly on, and the first fierce lightning flash parted the blackening gloom.

Jack gave one cry—he could hardly help it—as the thunder crashed and rolled above his head. But his faithful Vic's broad wing was spread above two heads instead of one, as the bird and the boy huddled together in the hole she had been scooping.

It was an awful moment. Down came the heavy drops of thunder-rain. The tall grass waved and shivered. Aroused by Jack's wild cry, a quaint black figure crept cautiously out of a deserted ant-bear's hole, with which the ground was honey-combed, and looked around. Another and another jagged flash compelled her to fling herself on the ground to escape its fury.

Swiftly as the storm had arisen, so swiftly did it pass. Beyond the angry clouds a bright-hued rainbow spanned the wide reach of sky and kissed the crimsoned sand, that seemed to glow with a deeper red when the brightness of the golden sunshine was withdrawn.

To Jack's surprise Vickel began to hiss. He parted her feathers with his fingers and looked cautiously around.

The storm was dying, but every leaf was glittering with its sparkling diamond drop. The thirsty earth was already rejoicing; the very flowers seemed whispering, "Rain, more rain," as they lifted their drooping heads in grateful gladness.

The black had raised herself on one elbow, and was gazing earnestly at Vickel's damaged plumage. Those singed wings could not easily be mistaken. Like the hum of the wandering bee her song arose:—

"Lamb without a mother, where, oh, where? Bird without a heart, To leave the fair 'umfana' and depart; Or was the hard, hard casa hard to thee? And did he force a faithful bird to flee?"

Jack sprang to his feet and rushed towards the singer. The voice was the voice of the poor Black Antelope. He could have recognized that song had they met at the ends of the earth.

"Umfana," repeated Jack, catching the sound of the one Kafir word with which she had made him familiar. "Why, that was what she always called me, and Zyl was her 'umdanda,' now I recollect."

To make assurance doubly sure, Jack shouted, "Here's your old umfana."

"Ou ka! (Oh no)," cried the Black Antelope, springing to her feet, for she began to think the bird was talking; she could see no umfana (child) or umdanda (boy) anywhere.

Her frantic gesticulations, her wild cries, set Jack off laughing. She began to tear her hair, declaring it was a spook (a bogle) that was mocking her.

Up rose Vickel with a screaming hiss, leaving Jack tumbling in the sand. The next minute he found himself half hugged to death in the fervid embraces of the Kafir nurse.

"You did not expect to meet a six-foot hen with a two-handed chick, now did you?" asked Jack, kissing her fondly, as he felt her bony arm.

How sorry Jack was he had eaten all the food Mr. Wilton and his passengers had given him, for he was certain the poor girl was really starving. Like Vickel, she had been eating rosemary leaves. But her delight at finding Jack made her forget her own sufferings.

Yet, yet, she asked, why was her pet-lamb straying on the veldt? It was well they had met, for the homeless dog, as she called herself, could guard the lost lamb and save him from destruction. She drew him to a safer spot, and sitting down beside him, watched the parting clouds, for the lightning had not altogether ceased, and the thunder still rumbled behind the low sand-hills. Overhead the sky was clearing, and the arching rainbow shone with brightened hues.

Jack leaned against his Kafir friend, while Vickel strutted about, drying her feathers in the transient gleams of the returning sun. The air grew fresh and reviving. The sleep the postman had so earnestly recommended to Jack fell upon him unawares.

The Black Antelope had noticed at the first glance that her lamb had been shorn of his wavy curls, and now she perceived the traces of recent illness in his pale lips and hollow eyes. So she waited patiently beside him, flapping away the stinging flies with a long tuft of grass, that his sleep might be unbroken; and so the weary hours passed by.

When Jack at length awakened, the darkness of night had gathered around them. Vickel was roosting in the sand at their feet; but the glorious stars of the southern hemisphere were shining forth in all their splendour.

"There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard," thought Jack as he looked into the Kafir's eyes and then pointed upwards to their glittering light, and began to sing,—

"Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on!"

Oh, how she listened. The solemn stillness of the night oppressed them both. Jack was almost afraid to think, and altogether too proud to cry; yet in spite of himself a something rising in his throat choked his voice.

"Have I done wrong to venture here alone?" he asked. "I almost wish—but no—" He checked himself. "I won't mind, for I've done it. The letter is safe on its way to grandfather. Oh, if I could only have asked father what I had better do."

Then the sweet words of his hymn came back to him; and kneeling down amid the eerie, lonesome waste, he took the Black Antelope's hand in his, and coaxed her to kneel beside him as he repeated aloud,—

"Our Father."

Yes, her Father as well as his, if she but knew it. Yet his prayer was for them both, as she dimly felt.

Jack had poured forth all his troubles, and his heart was lightened. They could do nothing but keep just where they were until daylight. "And then," thought Jack, "I shall see the tracks of the post-cart, and I'll take the poor Black Antelope home to Tottie; for all her trouble came through her kindness to me. It is hard when trouble comes through trying to do right."

Then sleep came slowly back again, and Jack was dreaming of the home he could not find.

At the peep of dawn he rose and began searching diligently for the track of the post-cart. Alas, alas! He could not find it. How was it? Had they wandered unconsciously from the spot? Or had the storm obliterated the deep wheel-ruts? He could not tell.

Jack tried to explain to his companion what it was that he was searching for, by drawing lines with his finger in the sand.

Both were faint for want of breakfast, and soon grew tired. The eagerness with which Jack had started on his fruitless search had dwindled to a lagging walk; but not one vestige of a cart-track could be discovered.

Then he sprang upon Vickel, who had made her breakfast on the scrubby grass as she loitered after them. Jack arranged her hood and bridle, and then invited the Black Antelope to mount beside him. Vickel was now so strong she could have carried a man on each shoulder with ease. She thought nothing of her added burden, and ran off as gaily as on the preceding day. She, at least, was in her native element, and every now and then turned a loving look to her master's face as she took a wider sweep, scouring the mighty plain in every direction.

At last the Kafir girl's quick eye detected the welcome lines ridging the wavy sand. She pointed them out to Jack with a cry of joy. The track of the post-cart at last, thought Jack, as he dropped the hood over Vickel's eyes and jumped off. But the Kafir was before him, running swiftly between the two deep ruts, which nothing smaller than the broad wheels of a heavily-laden waggon could have made.

Jack was thinking only of the way home; but the Black Antelope, with her larger experience of all the ups and downs a life on the veldt embraces, knew that the tracks could only be a few hours old, for the hoof-marks of the oxen were not yet effaced. She noticed them carefully to find out which way the waggon had gone; not that she wished to follow it, but she shrewdly conjectured that a few miles the other way they should find the spot where the waggon-driver had out-spanned for the night. Perhaps a waste crust or a half-picked bone might be dropped beside the ashes of his fire. She beckoned Jack to follow her; for he had paused, waiting for Vickel, who seemed wonderfully busy scratching about in the sand. At last she sat down in it.

So unlike her, Jack thought, as he went back to call her. The fear of losing his ostrich over-mastered every other feeling.

But for once in her life she refused to answer to his call. Would his Vickel grow wild and forsake him if they kept on wandering about the veldt? At last she got up with an air of importance, and began scratching up the sand vehemently.

He went close up to her before he could rouse her. Then he saw she was covering something up. Oh, joy, joy! His Vickel had laid her first egg!

He ran and picked it up. What a jolly egg it was! Almost as big as Jack's head, now he had lost his hair. He was certain it must weigh nearly two pounds and a half. He thought she might have chosen a better colour, for it was a dirty white marbled over with yellow. Jack took it up very carefully and held it up on high to show it to his companion. Jack never forgot the cry with which she bounded towards him and pounced upon the egg.

Snatching up a sharp stone, she made a small hole in the shell, and began to suck the rich nutritious yolk. Then remembering herself, she held it to Jack's lips, with a look so deprecating that it stopped his reproachful "Don't, don't!" For he saw that she was famishing. He took a sip. The welcome nourishment revived his spirits.

It was life to them both. They shared it between them, each trying to make the other take the lion's share. Hungry as they were, there was more than enough to satisfy them.

"My best and sweetest! My ownie and good!" cried Jack, as he kissed the breast of his snow-feathered queen, who walked beside him with added dignity.

The Black Antelope was right. An hour's walk brought them to the smoking ashes of a dying fire. She raked these carefully together with a bit of charred stick; and after signing to Jack to lie down and rest under the nearest bush, she began to search about for fuel—a difficult matter on an African plain; an almost hopeless quest now, for the waggoner who lit the fire had been before her. A few dead leaves under a bush that had been struck by the lightning, and a twig or two, were all that she could find.

She returned to Jack, who was dozing in the sunshine, and made up the fire, little dreaming that it was his own father who had lighted it on his return journey. She wandered forth a second time in search of water, confident that she should find it somewhere in the neighbourhood of the traveller's fire. Vickel's egg-shell served her for a cup when she found a tiny runlet, glistening like a silver braid amidst the scorching sand. A dead bird lay on the ground, another victim of last night's tempest. Her cry of joy brought Jack to her side to taste the delights of a cup of sun-warmed water in the burning heat of an African noon.

Then she roasted the bird in the ashes for their dinner, content to let the morrow take care for itself; whilst poor Jack grew every hour more uneasy. He knew now they had lost their way. The track they had found was not the track of the post-cart; for he too had noticed the foot-prints of the oxen, so different from the mark of the horse-shoes. His only hope was in Vickel's sagacity. She might yet find her way back to Tottie's hut.