Cinderella in the South: Twenty-Five South African Tales. Arthur Shearly Cripps

They were driving their flock between the white-blossomed bushes.

      Browne stood a long while and watched that landscape. I would have given something to have read his face all the while, but his back was turned to us.

      At last he began to pace up and down by the bookstall. Then he stood to gaze again, scouring, as it seemed, the far distance with eyes straining their utmost. Our eyes followed his.

      Did not some ironstone kopjes rise up dimly to the north there?

      Assuredly Browne saw those blue peaks and ridges, and remembered them.

      'Do you remember them?' I asked Drayton.

      'Don't I just?' he said.

      He began again in his chanting chorus tone: he was reading and transposing from a pocket copy of Theocritus.

      'They all call thee a "gipsy," gracious Africa, and "lean" and "sunburnt," 'tis only I that call thee "honey-pale." Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands. … Ah, gracious Africa, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory, thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them.'

      The engine whistled. Browne roused himself to my intense relief, and climbed into the train.

      'Good-bye,' I called to him as they steamed away.

      'Au revoir,' he called back to me.