As she neared the homestead, coming towards her, she recognised her husband. She was unprepared to meet him there at that hour. He had ridden over from Benfontein. She wondered a little impatiently what brought him. His presence there so early in the morning disconcerted her. Although he was aware that she was sharing with her mother the care of the sick man, and had given her permission to dress Matheson's wound and aid Mrs Krige with her professional knowledge, his acquiescence had not included sitting up with the patient at night: he had supposed she would sleep beneath Leentje Nel's roof. It never occurred to him that Matheson's case called for particular care. The wound was not serious--a flesh wound only; he saw no reason why the women should make a fuss over a mere scratch. In his opinion his own hurt called for greater consideration. His throat was sore and swollen; he had difficulty in swallowing. But Honor had expressed little sympathy with him. She had left him alone all night to care for the man who had injured him. He felt resentful; and he was angry with her because of her concern for the Englishman. What was this cursed Englishman to her that she should feel it her duty to tend him? "You are over early," she said, when she came up with him. "I didn't expect you." "So I supposed," he answered roughly, and turned and walked back beside her. "I've been to the farm. Leentje told me you were at the rondavel. I was going to fetch you. What were you doing there? I don't choose that my wife should spend the night with any man, sick or well." She flushed warmly. "Some one had to watch beside him," she said with immense restraint. "There was no one else to do it." "Absurd!" he replied angrily. "The nigger is good enough to wait on him. There was no one to look after me." "You were not so badly hurt," she returned, in a voice which despite its quiet tones should have warned him of her rising anger. She did not look at him; her eyes searched the landscape ahead of her, and rested with tired satisfaction on the dew-drenched sparse vegetation, cobwebbed with silver threads. "I feel sick enough," he said savagely. "But that's nothing to you. Leentje Nel wouldn't nurse her husband's murderer." Honor smiled briefly. "You are very aggressively alive for a murdered man," she said. She touched his sleeve diffidently. "Don't be cross, Heinrich. I'm tired-- so very tired. And this morning I am racked with anxious fears--fears for Andreas--fears for the cause. The country is not with us." Holman made an angry gesture and spat upon the ground. "White-livered curs!" he muttered. "Everything was in our hands. They've sold us--these pitiful Boers. They're afraid for their blessed skins."