In reality, they were near Calvinia; but, by the middle of
the month, rumor had so far out-stripped fact that certain refugee
Uitlanders were ready to affirm that Table Mountain was held by an
invading army who patrolled the summit, coffee pot in one hand and
Bible in the other. Under these conditions, the little Dutch church
at Piquetberg Road had become, in all truth, the abiding-place of
the Church Militant.
In deference to tradition, the altar had been promptly pulled down
and its ornaments stowed away to be safe from possible desecration.
The altar rail was left, however, and Weldon sat leaning against it,
his eyes vaguely turned upwards to the organ in the farther end of
the church. From the open floor between, the buzz of many voices and
the smoke of many pipes rose to the roof; from the vestry room
behind him, he heard the cleaner-cut accent of the officers.
Outside, above the light spatter of rain on the windows, he could
hear the horses stamping contentedly in the leafy avenue without the
churchyard wall, and the brawl of the stream beyond. The twilight
lay heavy over the church, heaviest of all over the distant organ
gallery, where Weldon could barely make out a single figure moving
towards the bench.
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