“Why, the cave up yonder. It’s a regular Bushman’s cave. A lot of them used to live there; but the Dutchmen, who owned the place just below, polished off the last of them. That was during the ’46 war. Some of their bones are there still, I believe; but it’s a long time since I’ve been into it.”
“That sounds interesting, but rather ghastly,” said Lilian. “But why were they killed? Did they join the Kafirs in the war?”
“No. The Kafirs hated them almost more than the Boers did. But they’re mischievous little devils, you see. One scratch of their poisoned arrows, and it was all up with you.”
“Where is the place?” asked Claverton.
“Just a little way down the bend, there,” pointing to the jutting wall of cliff. “There’s a path leading up to it—a sort of cattle track—you ought to go and look at it. And there are a lot of regular Bushman drawings in the rock, which are rather curious things if you haven’t seen them before. Take Miss Strange up to see them, she might like to make sketches of them.”
For Lilian was an adept in the art of water-colour drawing, and had already portrayed much of the wild bush scenery in the neighbourhood, which had never before been reduced to paper.
“That would be so nice,” she said. “I’ve brought my drawing things with me, too.”
“Claverton, old feller,” cried old Garrett. “We ’aven’t ’ad a glass together all day; let’s have one now.”
“All right.”
“That’s it. Better late than never. ’Ere’s my respects,” cried the old chap, nodding; his rubicund countenance aglow with geniality—and grog. “I suppose, Miss Strange,” he went on, turning to Lilian, “you’d never ’ave thought we could get up such a pleasant little picnic in these out-of-the-way parts, would you?”