It may take a year before her body is fully mended. There is no

medicine I can give you. She must be kept quiet, feed her well and wait

for time to cure her. The doctor hesitated. There is other damage - he

tapped his forehead with his forefinger. Grief is a terrible destroyer.

She will need love and gentleness and after another six months she will

need a baby to fill the emptiness left by the one she lost. Give her

those three things, meneer, but most of all give her love. The doctor

hauled his watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. Time! there is

so little time. I must go, there are others who need me. He held out

his hand to Sean. Go with God, meneer. Sean shook his hand. How much

do I owe you? The doctor smiled, he had a brown face and his eyes were

pale blue; when he smiled he looked like a boy. I make no charge for

words. I wish I could have done more. He hurried away across the

square and when he walked you could see that his smile lied, he was an

old man.

Mbejane! said Sean. Get a big tusk out of the wagon and take it to the

doctor's room above the store. Katrina and Sean went to the morning

service in the church next day. Katrina could not stand through the

hymns. She sat quietly in her pew, watching the altar, her lips forming

the words of the hymn and her eyes full of her sorrow.

They stayed on for three more days in Louis Trichardt and they were made

welcome. Men came to drink coffee with them and see the ivory and the

women brought them eggs and fresh vegetables, but Sean was anxious to

move south. So on the third day they started the last stage of their

trek.

Katrina regained her strength rapidly now. She took over the management

of Dirk from the servants, to their ill-concealed disappointment, and

soon she left her litter and rode on the -box seat of the lead wagon

again. Heir body filled out and there was colour showing once more

through the yellow skin of her cheeks. Despite the improvement to her

body the depression of her mind still persisted and there was nothing

that Sean could do to lift it.

A month before the Christmas of 1895 Sean's wagon train climbed the low

range of hills above the city and they looked down into Pretoria. The

jacaranda trees that filled every garden were in bloom, masses of purple

and the busy streets spoke well of the prosperity of the Transvaal

Republic. Sean outspanned on the outskirts of the city, simply pulling

the wagons off the road and camping beside it, and once the camp was

established and Sean had made certain that Katrina no longer needed his

help he put on his one good suit and called for his horse. His suit had

been cut to the fashion of four years previously and had been made to

encompass the belly he had acquired on the Witwatersrand. Now it hung

loosely down his body but bunched tightly around his thickened arms. His

face was burnt black by the sun and his beard bushed down onto his chest

and concealed the fact that the stiff collar of his shirt could no

longer close around his neck. His boots were scuffed almost through the

uppers, there was not a suspicion of polish on them and they had

completely lost their shape. Sweat had soaked through his hat around

the level of the hand and left dark greasy marks; the brim drooped down

over his eyes so he had to wear it pushed onto the back of his head.

There was, therefore, some excuse for the curious glances that followed

him that afternoon as he rode down Church Street with a great muscular

savage trotting at his one stirrup and an overgrown brindle hound at the

other. They pushed their way between the wagons that cluttered the wide

street; they passed the Raadsaal of the Republican Parliament, passed

the houses standing back from the road in their spacious purple and

green gardens and came at last to the business area of the city that

crowded round the railway station. Sean and Duff had bought their

supplies at a certain general dealer's stores and now Sean went back to

it. It was hardly changed, the signboard in front had faded a little

but still declared that Goldberg, Importer and Exporter, Dealer in

Mining Machinery, Merchant and Wholesaler, was prepared to consider the

purchase of gold, precious stone, hides and skins, ivory and other

natural produce. Sean swung down from the saddle and tossed his reins

to Mbejane. Unsaddle, Mbejane. This may take time. Sean stepped up

onto the sidewalk, lifted his hat to two passing ladies and went through

into the building where Mr Goldberg conducted his diverse activities.

one of the assistants hurried to meet him, but Sean shook his head and

the man went back behind the counter. He had seen Mr Goldberg with two

customers at the far end of the store. He was -- content to wait. He

browsed around among the loaded shelves of merchandise, feeling the

quality of a shirt, sniffing at a box of cigars, examining an axe,

lifting a rifle down off the rack and sighting at a spot on the wall,

until Mr Goldberg bowed his customers through the door and turned to

Sean. Mr Goldberg was short and fat.

His hair was cropped short and his neck bulged over the top of his

collar. He looked at Sean and his eyes were expressionless while he

riffled through the index cards of his memory for the name. Then he

beamed like a brilliant burst of sunlight. Mr Courtney, isn't it? Sean

grinned. That's right. How are you, Izzy? They shook hands. How's

business?

Mr Goldberg's face fell. Terrible, terrible, Mr Courtney.