We gulped down our eggs in silence. Then I held
Hilda's bicycle. She vaulted lightly on to the seat, white and tired
as she was, with the baby in her left arm, and her right hand on the
handle-bar.
"I must take the baby," I said.
She shook her head.
"Oh, no. I will not trust her to you."
"Hilda, I insist."
"And I insist, too. It is my place to take her."
"But can you ride so?" I asked, anxiously.
She began to pedal. "Oh, dear, yes. It is quite, quite easy. I shall get
there all right--if the Matabele don't burst upon us."
Tired as I was with my long day's work, I jumped into my saddle. I saw
I should only lose time if I disputed about the baby. My little horse
seemed to understand that something grave had occurred; for, weary as
she must have been, she set out with a will once more over that great
red level. Hilda pedalled bravely by my side. The road was bumpy, but
she was well accustomed to it. I could have ridden faster than she went,
for the baby weighted her. Still, we rode for dear life. It was a grim
experience.
All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds of black smoke
which went up from burning farms and plundered homesteads.
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