His hand had prisoned hers as she stood over him arranging the plates and dishes. A faint colour came into her face, and she made a movement to withdraw it. The attempt, however, was a feeble one. "I think we are a pair of very foolish people," she said, with a laugh whose sadness almost conveyed the idea of a sob. "Perhaps so," he rejoined, pressing the hand he held to his cheek a moment, ere releasing it. "What would life be worth without its foolishness?" For a few moments neither spoke. Eanswyth was busying herself arranging some of the things in the room, adjusting an ornament here, dusting one there. Eustace ate his breakfast in silence, tried to, rather, for it seemed to him at times as if he could not eat at all. The attempt seemed to choke him. His thoughts, his feelings, were in a whirl. Here were they two alone together, with the whole day before them, and yet there seemed to have arisen something in the nature of a barrier between them. A barrier, however, which it would not be difficult to overthrow, his unerring judgment told him; yet he fought hard with himself not to lose his self-control. He noted the refined grace of every movement as she busied herself about the room--the thoroughbred poise of the stately head, the sheen of light upon the rich hair. All this ought to belong to him--did belong to him. Yet he fought hard with himself, for he read in that brave, beautiful face an appeal, mute but eloquent--an appeal to him to spare her. A rap at the door startled him--startled them both. What if it was some neighbour who had ridden over to pay them a visit, thought Eustace with dismay--some confounded bore who would be likely to remain the best part of the day? But it was only old Josane, the cattle-herd. His master had told him to look in presently and ask for some tobacco, which he had been promised. "I'll go round to the storeroom and get it for him," said Eanswyth. "You go on with your breakfast, Eustace." "No, I'll go. I've done anyhow. Besides, I want to speak to him." Followed by the old Kafir, Eustace unlocked the storeroom--a dark, cool chamber forming part of an outbuilding. The carcase of a sheep, freshly killed that morning, dangled from a beam. Piles of _reims_, emitting a salt, rancid odour--kegs of sheep-dip, huge rolls of Boer tobacco, bundles of yoke-skeys, and a dozen other things requisite to the details of farm work were stowed around or disposed on shelves. On one side was a grindstone and a carpenter's bench. Eustace cut off a liberal length from one of the rolls of tobacco and gave it to the old Kafir. Then he filled his own pipe. "Josane?" "_Nkose_!" "You are no fool, Josane. You have lived a good many years, and your head is nearly as snow-sprinkled as the summit of the Great Winterberg in the autumn. What do you thing of last night's performance over yonder?" The old man's shrewd countenance melted into a slight smile and he shook his head.