Now, as in a dream, Rachel descended the steep, rock-strewn banks of the
dry branch of the river-bed, wending her way between the boulders and
noting that rotten weeds and peeled brushwood rested against the stems of
the mimosa thorns which grew--there, tokens which told her that here in
times of flood the water flowed. Well, there was little enough of it now,
only a pool or two to form a mirror for the lightning. In front of her lay
the island where grew the Cape gooseberries, or winter cherries as they
are sometimes called, which she came to seek. It was a low piece of
ground, a quarter of a mile long, perhaps, but in the centre of it were
some great rocks and growing among the rocks, trees, one of them higher
than the rest. Beyond it ran the true river, even now at the end of the
dry season three or four hundred yards in breadth, though so shallow that
it could be forded by an ox-drawn waggon.
It was raining on the mountains yonder, raining in torrents poured from
those inky clouds, as it had done off and on for the past twenty-four
hours, and above their fire-laced bosom floated glorious-coloured masses
of misty vapour, enflamed in a thousand hues by the arrows of the sinking
sun. Above her, however, there was no sun, nothing but the curtain of
cloud which grew gradually from grey to black and minute by minute sank
nearer to the earth.
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