There is little more to tell. Just that old, old story—that sad refrain of the Kaffir woman that we British-born can conquer anything but Death.

All unaware, that scourge of the Wet crept back to the homestead, and the great Shadow, closing in on us, flung wide those gates of Death once more, and turning, before passing through, beckoned to our Măluka to follow. But at those open gates the Măluka lingered a little while with those who were fighting so fiercely and impotently to close them—lingering to teach us out of his own great faith that “Behind all Shadows standeth God.” And then the gates gently closing, a woman stood alone in that little home that had been wrested, so merrily, out of the very heart of Nature.

That is all the world need know. All else lies deep in the silent hearts of the Men of the Never-Never,—in those great, silent hearts that came in to the woman at her need; came in at the Dandy’s call, and went out to her, and shut her in from all the dangers and terror that beset her, quietly mourning their own loss the while. And as those great hearts mourned, ever and anon a long-drawn-out, sobbing cry went up from the camp, as the tribe mourned for their beloved dead—their dead and ours—our Măluka, “the best Boss that ever a man struck.”