David drove into the yard soberly; she was at the stoep.

“All is ready,” she said, in a low voice.  “Will you bring him in?”

“Yes,” he said; and she went inside with her heart thrashing like a kicking horse.

David carried in his son in his arms; he was not yet past that.  On the white bed inside they laid him, and where his fair head touched the pillow it dyed it red.  Frikkie’s face was white and blue, and his jaw hung oddly; but once he was within the door, some reinforcement of association came to Christina, and she went about her ministry purposefully and swiftly, a little comforted.  At the back of her brain dwelt some idea such as this:  here was her house, her home, there David, there Frikkie, here she, and where these were together Death could never make the fourth.  The same thought sends a stricken child to its mother.  David leant on the foot of the bed, his burning eyes on the face of his son, and his brows tortured with anxiety.  Christina brought some drink in a cup and held it to the still lips of the young man.

“Drink.  Frikkie,” she pleaded softly.  “Drink, my kleintje.  Only a drop, Frikkie, and the pain will fly away.”

She spoke as though he were yet a child, for a mother knows nothing of manhood when her son lies helpless.  The arts that made him a man shall keep him a man; so she coaxed the closed eyes and the dumb mouth.

But Frikkie would not drink, heard nothing, gave no sign.  Christina laid drenched cloths to his forehead, deftly cleansed and bandaged the gaping rent in the base of the skull whence the life whistled forth, and talked to her boy all the while in the low crooning mother voice.  David never moved from the foot of the bed, and never loosed his drawn brows.  In came little Paul silently and took his hand, but he never looked down, and the father and the child remained there throughout the languid afternoon.

Evening cool was growing up when Frikkie opened his eyes.  Christina was wetting towels for bandages, and her back was towards him, but she knew instantly, and came swiftly to his side.  David leaned forward breathlessly, and little Paul cried out with the grip of his hand.  They saw a waver of recognition in Frikkie’s eyes, a fond light, and it seemed that his lips moved.  Christina laid her ear to them.

“And—­a—­shod—­horse!” murmured Frikkie.  Nothing more.  An hour after he was cold, and David was alone on the stoep, questioning pitiless skies and groping for God, while Christina knelt beside the bed within and wept blood from her soul.

They buried Frikkie in a little kraal on the hillside, and David made the coffin.  When he nailed down the lid he was an old man; when the first red clod rang on it, he felt that life had emptied itself.  When they were back in the house again, Christina turned to him.

“You knew,” she said, in a strange voice—­“you knew, but you could not save him.”  And she laughed aloud.  David covered his face with his hands and groaned, but the next instant Christina’s arms were about him.