For a moment they sat thus looking at each other pitifully, and—the truth must be told—weeping, both of them. Then something got the better of Richard, let us call it primeval instinct, so that he put his arms about Rachel and kissed her, after which they continued to weep, their heads resting upon each other’s shoulders. At length he let her go and stood up, saying argumentatively: “You see now we are really friends.” “Yes,” she answered, again rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand for lack of a pocket handkerchief in the fashion that on the previous day had so irritated her father, “but I don’t know why you should kiss me like that, just because you are my friend, or” she added with an outburst of truthfulness, “why I should kiss you.” Richard stood over her frowning and reflecting. Then he gave up the problem as beyond his powers of interpretation, and said: “You remember that rubbish you dreamt just now, about my being tied to a tree and the rest of it? Well, it wasn’t nice, and it gives me the creeps to think of it, like the lions outside the cave. But I want to tell you that I hope it is true, for then we shall meet again, if it is only to say good-night.” “Yes, Richard,” she answered, placing her slim fingers into his big brown hand, “we shall meet again, I am sure—I am quite sure. And I think that it will be to say, not good-night,” and she looked up at him and smiled, “but good-morning.” As Rachel spoke a puff of wind blew down the donga, rolling up the mist before it, and of a sudden shining above them they saw the glorious sun. As though by magic butterflies appeared basking upon the rain-shattered lily blooms; bright birds flitted from tree to tree, ringdoves began to coo. The terror of the tempest and the darkness of night were overpast; the world awoke again to life and love and joy. Instantly this change reflected itself in their young hearts. They whose natures had as it were ripened prematurely in the stress of danger and the shadow of death, became children once again. The very real emotions that they had experienced were forgotten, or at any rate sank into abeyance. Now they thought, not of separation or of the dim, mysterious future that stretched before them, but only of how they should ford the stream and gain its further side, where Rachel saw her father, Tom, the driver, and the other Kaffirs, and Richard saw his horse which he had feared was lost.