For the first time he looked away from her, looked out through the open door over the veldt to that far-distant line of hills that bounded their world.  His brown face was set in stern, unwavering lines.

Furtively Matilda watched him, still with that uneasy feeling at her heart.  There was something enigmatical to her about this man’s hard endurance, but she did not resent it any longer.  It awed her.

Several seconds passed ere abruptly he turned and spoke.  “I am going back.  Will you tell Sylvia?  Say I can manage all right without her if she is—­happier here!” The barely perceptible pause before the word made Matilda avert her eyes instinctively though his face never varied.  “I wish her to do exactly as she likes.  Good-bye!”

He held out his hand to her suddenly, and she was amazed by the warmth of his grasp.  She murmured something incoherent about hoping she had not been very unpleasant.  It was the humblest moment she had ever known.

He smiled in reply—­that faint, baffling smile.  “Oh, not in the least.  I am grateful to you for telling me the truth.  I am sure you didn’t enjoy it.”

No, to her own surprise, she had not enjoyed it.  She even watched him go with regret.  There was that about Burke Ranger at the moment which made her wonder if possibly the harsh conception she had formed of him were wholly justified.

As for Burke, he went straight out to his horses, looking neither to right nor left, untied the reins, and drove forth again into the veldt with the dust of the desert rising all around him.

CHAPTER XI

THE STORM

Hans Schafen met his master on the boundary of Blue Hill Farm with a drawn face.  Things were going from bad to worse.  The drought was killing the animals like flies.  If the rain did not come soon, there would be none left.  He made his report to Burke with a precision that did not hide his despair.  Matters had never before looked so serious.  The dearth of water had begun to spell disaster.

Burke listened with scarcely a comment.  Blue Hill Farm was on rising ground, and there had always been this danger in view.  But till this season it had never materialized to any alarming extent.  His position had often enough been precarious, but his losses had never been overwhelming.  The failure of the dam at Ritter Spruit had been a catastrophe more far reaching than at the time he had realized.  It had crippled the resources of the farm, and flung him upon the chances of the weather.  He was faced with ruin.

He heard Schafen out with no sign of consternation, and when he had ended he drove on to the farm and stabled his horses himself with his usual care.  Then he went into his empty bungalow. . .

Slowly the long hours wore away.  The sun rose in its strength, shining through a thick haze that was like the smoke from a furnace.  The atmosphere grew close and suffocating.  An intense stillness reigned without, broken occasionally by the despairing bleating of thirst-stricken sheep.  The haze increased, seeming to press downwards upon the parched earth.  The noonday was dark with gathering clouds.