And so goes on the incomprehensible, with the persistent result, and still the world, and especially the poor Teutonic world, understands them not. Their allies the French have tried very hard, until some glimmer of light on island minds has come to them, and with that light, faith—faith to believe that, however dull, and queer, and gruff, and awkward the English might be, there is something to be liked and trusted in the queer methods that so successfully and so illogically govern one-sixth of the world. Old Schwartz’s horse lolloped over the crisp red grass of the _vlei_, and a brace of _Kuoorhaan_, the scolding hens, rose with a whirr and a clatter that roused the old man from his dreams, and he pulled himself together to cross the slope to his farm. The sun was low over the _veldt_, and the light of fairyland was falling on the countryside, as he rode into the yards—past the sheep-kraals. There were geese under the willows picking at the water-cress in the fountain cut, and the boys were driving in the cows. Strangers had arrived, and Schwartz could see old Tanta Fouché, his half-sister, a woman of seventy, out in the _stoep_, and there were strange horses in the kraal. Four figures in khaki sat in the _stoep_ drinking coffee, and old Schwartz climbed down from his horse and stiffly mounted the steps, while the new-comers rose to greet him. It was his son Hermanus from Slipklip Oost, and with him a man he knew, Commandant Jacobus Delarey of Witkopjie, but in khaki, with rifle and bandolier. Why in khaki? Old Schwartz shook hands in silence, and peered under his shaggy eyebrows at the other two, also in khaki, with rifles and bandoliers. They were his grandsons, Willie and Munik, his two favourites, ‘the children’s children that are an old man’s crown.’ The old man passed his hand over his brow in perplexity. ‘What are you all doing in khaki? I don’t understand, Hermanus.’ ‘The boys are going with the commando, father!’ ‘What commando?’ ‘The new commando that is going to help the English in Egypt, and the French.’ ‘Going to help the English, my grandsons—going to wear khaki? I will never allow that.’ ‘But, father, they are all doing it; all the young men are going. General Smuts is raising many commandos, English and Dutch. The English are fighting to protect the world against Germany. I have read it out to you, and mother has told you of the war.’ ‘Your mother never told me that the farmers were going to wear khaki and be English soldiers. Cursed be any of mine who join the English.’ And the old man drew himself up and glared, and his old eyes blazed under his eyebrows. ‘Man and boy have I hated them and fought them, and never trusted them, and now, cursed be you, Hermanus, if you let them go—cursed be you, Willie! cursed be you, Munik!...’ The boys had shrunk back into the doorway, and Commandant Delarey was biting his beard, when a Cape cart came clattering up the courtyard to the _stoep_.