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Updated: May 18, 2025
Christina brought some drink in a cup and held it to the still lips of the young man. "Drink. Frikkie," she pleaded softly. "Drink, my kleintje. Only a drop, Frikkie, and the pain will fly away." She spoke as though he were yet a child, for a mother knows nothing of manhood when her son lies helpless.
No pensive mood could survive the sight of mighty Frikkie gambolling like a young bull in the company of Paul; nor could quiet hours impart a melancholy while the welkin rang with the voice of the kleintje bullying the adoring Kafirs. Where before life had glided, now it steeplechased, taking its days bull-headed, and Paul grew to the age of four as a bamboo grows, in leaps.
"Yes," she said. "What shall I tell Frikkie and the kleintje from you?" "Tell them nothing," he said, after a pause. "It cannot be that I shall be apart from you all long. No; I am very sure of that." She pressed his hand, and soon afterwards felt some pain. It was little, and she made no outcry.
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