Presently regaining her courage she got up and looked about her critically. It was then she saw that there was no candelabra tree by this pool. That shook her a little.

"Better call out," was her next thought, and she followed it up by a shout that sounded absurdly like a baby crying from a pin-prick. She was reminded of the little lost child, and began to tremble in spite of herself. "I’ll get out into the open," she thought. "There are too many trees here. They shut in my voice."

She moved a little way off and called. Then again she walked on and called. Mechanically she found herself moving along, calling as she went. Her voice seemed to grow weaker every moment, but her steps grew quicker. At last, she began to run.

Something tickled her face, and lazily, for she was very tired, and there was a rushing noise in her ears, she put up her hand to brush the irritation away. Then her hand tickled too. She held it before her eyes and saw that it was covered with little black ants. At that, her aversion to creeping things galvanised her into movement, and she sprang up, frantically brushing scores of ants from her face and hands. It was then she realised that she had been lying face downwards on the ground. She must have fallen, and lain where she fell. How long ago that was she had no idea, but the sun was very low. She could see it in the reddened skies just behind some trees.

The next discovery she made was a still stranger one. When she set out on her journey she had been dressed in a suit of khaki-coloured duck, made in three pieces; a Norfolk coat, a short deerstalker skirt that could be unhooked and taken off like a modern riding-habit, and, underneath, a serviceable pair of riding-breeches of the same material. These were met at the knees by leather gaiters. Stout brown shoes, and a dark silk shirt completed the suit, the whole having been designed and beautifully made by a well-known man in Bond Street; for with her mental eyes fixed on millionaires, Miss Carlton had not thought it wise to be economical in the direction of clothes. She now discovered herself to be attired only in the silk shirt and riding-breeches. Her boots and gaiters were scratched and worn almost beyond recognition; her hat, coat, skirt, and camera were gone. She had absolutely no idea how she had lost them, but some faint notion of searching for them made her look in the direction of the sun to see how long it would be before she was left in the dark. Then she observed another amazing thing. Instead of disappearing the sun had actually risen above the trees, and was advancing into the sky. The world was full of surprises. It was morning!

She had spent a night alone on the veld then! It seemed strange that she could remember nothing about this, but somehow the fact did not worry her very much. She felt indeed extraordinarily calm and careless. A sense of lightness and freedom pervaded her. She would not have minded anything if only she had not been so horribly tired. Also hungry and thirsty.

She began to saunter forward in a casual sort of way, and presently noticed that the rushing sound grew louder, and was not in her head at all, but in the air. There was a river close at hand, and she was making straight for it! This pleased her greatly, and when she came in sight of it she laughed joyously. It was fringed with trees, thick and tall, and the banks were high, but she had no difficulty in clambering down into the riverbed which was wide as Piccadilly Circus, and mostly composed of pure white sand and flat rocks. The stream in the middle which made so much noise was comparatively shallow and she could easily have forded it. What she did, however, was to lie down flat beside it and drink long and deep. At the same time, she experienced the sensation of having performed this act before.

"But one always has that feeling every time one does anything new!" she thought. Her face reflected in the water looked very dark, and her hands were burnt almost black—​covered with scratches too. That did not trouble her much. Her eye was ranging round the trees for something to eat. In a minute, she spied something yellow that might be fruit. While she was climbing up amongst the rough branches and foliage, adding considerably to her stock of scratches, she again had the sensation of having done this thing before. They were only sour plums, and she didn’t care much for sour things, but the peel was not bad. Later she found some wild apricots. There were also little flower bulbs sticking above the ground, with rushes attached to them, and of these she pulled a number. Some that had an oniony flavour she discarded, but others tasted as she knew they would, just like nuts. Munching placidly, she wandered on her way. The rushing sound of the river was pleasant company.

As she sauntered along, her glance struck something on the ground that was certainly foreign to the surroundings—​nothing less than the remains of a large canvas sack. Having slept for many nights upon mail-bags, she was in a position to recognise one when she saw it, besides, round this one were scattered the remains of many letters, torn, ant-eaten, and rotted by rain. Musingly, she lifted up the tattered canvas and examined it. There were sharp teeth marks on it, and it had been ripped savagely open from end to end. Yet, coyly hiding in a tarry fold, there remained some residue of what had evidently once been a full bag of mail—​on Her Majesty’s Service—​a stamped and addressed letter, and a newspaper. The ants had chewed both a little, but the canvas had kept them in good condition. Vivienne examined them with interest, and it being at this time full noon, the pleasant idea occurred to her of having a little rest, and a little read. Accordingly she seated herself and opened the newspaper.

It was the Buluwayo Chronicle dated October the 21st (the date she had landed in Cape Town) and addressed to a lady in Devonshire who would never now receive it. The contents did not interest Vivienne. The local news of a town she had never seen would scarcely be likely to do so. She threw it aside and took up the letter. For a moment she looked at the blurred address:

George Brain, Esqr., Mining Hotel, Beaconsfield, Diamond Fields. (Barkly West.)

Then as if it were the most natural thing in the world to open other people’s letters, she slipped her fingers under the flap of the envelope, pulled it off and threw it away. Unfolding the letter, she read it from beginning to end.

"Onder-koppies" near Buluwayo.

October 20th, 19--.

Dear George,

As soon as you get this, raise 500 pounds on the nail, and wire it up. I know money is tight, but get that pony from somewhere and your pile is made. Hunt and I have struck it rich. As a farming partner Hunt is no more good than a dead dog, but he knows the surveying and mineralogy business like his A.B.C. On the Rand, they used to call him the fellow with a nose for reef, and only he’s lazy as the devil he’d be rich as Hades by now. Anyway prowling round here he has nosed out a plum_…​ the land adjoining ours is lousy with gold_. Unfortunately the whole 6000 acres belong to de Windt—​you know—​the hunter and explorer fellow, who got this farm for his share in the Matabeleland row. However he’s never done anything with it except stick up a hut, and it’s common knowledge here that he’ll take what he can get for his land, for since the railway is on its way he professes himself sick of this country and is going to make tracks further north. He’s got no money, never has, and will jump at 500 pounds ready cash, so hustle and raise it George, and we’ll keep the loot in the family. Hunt and I haven’t a rap between us, and no means of getting any except by selling our land, which would look fishy to de Windt who is no fool. You can trust me there’s no mistake. Hunt is too wise a bird for that. But if you’ve any doubts, come up yourself and bring the best surveyor on the Fields. You’ll find that everything is O.K. Only it must be done sharp,--for de Windt will be up here on his way North about end November. Get busy. Zachabona!

Brother Frank.

"Charming fellow, brother Frank!" said Miss Carlton thoughtfully, and having no pocket, thrust the letter into the front of her silk shirt. Afterwards she sat shuffling the rags of paper and canvas with the toe of her shoe, wondering how they had come to this place. The conclusion was that the bag must have been dropped from the down-country coach, though clearly not at this spot, for there was no road. Probably some hungry animal had carried it off and torn it open to see what it contained. Possibly the coach road was not far off, and by continuing ahead she would find it. But she felt a curious indifference on the subject. The heat had filled her with a delightful drowsiness, and she decided to rest a little longer. With her back against a tree she stared dreamily at the lovely slope of country over which the sunshine appeared to be passing in ripples making the long pale grass sway in waves, though not a breath of wind stirred the air. Everything seemed wrapped in a pleasant golden haze, but whether the haze was in her mind or on the golden silent land about her she could not have told. At last her eyes gradually closed and she slept.

When she awoke the plain was still simmering under the sun waves, and leaves and grass crackled and stirred as before in the windless air. All was unchanged, except that at the top of the slope half a quarter of a mile away, a dozen or more buck were peacefully grazing among the pale long grass. Often from the coach Vivienne had seen such herds, and she knew the great dark creatures, with patches of white gleaming under them as they moved, to be sable antelope. Lazily she sat watching their slow graceful movements, as they fed, never dreaming of the presence of a human being, though sometimes one or another of them would raise its head and for a moment seem to listen.

Then in an instant with the flash and crack of sudden doom the scene changed. The antelope terror-stricken, were bounding across country and the girl leaping to her feet stood with eyes dilated and hand on heart. A gun had been fired and the dark body of one of the buck lay shuddering where a moment before it had been happily grazing.

Even as she stood staring, the figure of a man came from behind a far group of bush into the open—​a tall hulking figure, in sloppy trousers belted at the waist, his gun over his shoulder. He was a long way off, but he walked straight as a die for the spot where the buck lay, stooped over it for a minute, then wiped something he held in his hand on the grass and stuck it back into his belt. Afterwards he tied a little strip of white rag onto a bush close by. He stood for a while looking after the rest of the herd, now black dots in the distance, then leisurely started to walk back in the direction he came. Never once had he looked towards where Vivienne, motionless as a statue stood in the shadow of the trees.

As she watched him, his figure momentarily disappeared behind a bush, and then for the first time immobility passed from her face and figure. Panic swept over her like a wave. Uttering short sharp cries, she began to run after the man, and, as she ran, the remembrance came over her like the memory of some frightful nightmare how she had run like this before—​on and on and on—​over rocks, through bush, in blinding sunshine and heavy darkness. And with the remembrance came such terror as lent wings to her feet—​terror of losing sight of this human creature, and being left once more to the awful loneliness of the veld.

In a few moments she caught up to within thirty yards of the man, but long before that he had turned round and was watching her, his hat pushed back above his dark coarse face, his eyes full of astonishment.

"Hi! young fellah—​stop that!"

If he had fired off his gun at her the result could not have been more effective. She drew up instantly, stopped tearing with both hands at the collar of her shirt, and stood staring into his eyes, panting heavily. He ran a shrewd glance over her.