I called the name aloud:  “Hilda!  Hilda!  Hilda!”

As I called, to my immense surprise, one of the smooth round boulders on the hillside seemed slowly to uncurl, and to peer about it cautiously.  Then it raised itself in the slant sunlight, put a hand to its eyes, and gazed out upon me with a human face for a moment.  After that it descended, step by step, among the other stones, with a white object in its arms.  As the boulder uncurled and came to life, I was aware, by degrees . . . yes, yes, it was Hilda, with Tant Mettie’s baby!

In the fierce joy of that discovery I rushed forward to her, trembling, and clasped her in my arms.  I could find no words but “Hilda!  Hilda!”

“Are they gone?” she asked, staring about her with a terrified air, though still strangely preserving her wonted composure of manner.

“Who gone?  The Matabele?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Did you see them, Hilda?”

“For a moment—­with black shields and assegais, all shouting madly.  You have been to the house, Hubert?  You know what has happened?”

“Yes, yes, I know—­a rising.  They have massacred the Klaases.”

She nodded.  “I came back on my bicycle, and, when I opened the door, found Tant Mettie and little Sannie dead.  Poor, sweet little Sannie!  Oom Jan was lying shot in the yard outside.  I saw the cradle overturned, and looked under it for the baby.  They did not kill her—­perhaps did not notice her.  I caught her up in my arms, and rushed out to my machine, thinking to make for Salisbury, and give the alarm to the men there.  One must try to save others—­and you were coming, Hubert!  Then I heard horses’ hoofs—­the Matabele returning.  They dashed back, mounted,—­stolen horses from other farms,—­they have taken poor Oom Jan’s,—­and they have gone on, shouting, to murder elsewhere!  I flung down my machine among the bushes as they came,—­I hope they have not seen it,—­and I crouched here between the boulders, with the baby in my arms, trusting for protection to the colour of my dress, which is just like the ironstone.”

“It is a perfect deception,” I answered, admiring her instinctive cleverness even then.  “I never so much as noticed you.”

“No, nor the Matabele either, for all their sharp eyes.  They passed by without stopping.  I clasped the baby hard, and tried to keep it from crying—­if it had cried, all would have been lost; but they passed just below, and swept on toward Rozenboom’s.  I lay still for a while, not daring to look out.  Then I raised myself warily, and tried to listen.  Just at that moment, I heard a horse’s hoofs ring out once more.  I couldn’t tell, of course, whether it was you returning, or one of the Matabele, left behind by the others.  So I crouched again. . . .  Thank God, you are safe, Hubert!”

All this took a moment to say, or was less said than hinted.  “Now, what must we do?” I cried.  “Bolt back again to Salisbury?”