“And it’s shivery now,” said Edala, looking round with a shudder. “Come along.”
By the time they were off the moss-grown natural stairway it was nearly dark. The horses, hitched to a bush by the bridles, shook themselves and whinnied at their approach.
“What would be the effect of your ‘aerial throne’ by starlight, Miss Thornhill?” said Elvesdon, as they passed beneath the mighty cliff, whose loom cut straight and black against the myriad stars which came gushing out into the velvety vault.
“I’ve never tried it. I believe I’d be afraid. You know—the Kafirs say the Sipazi mountain is haunted, that all sorts of tagati sounds float off from the top of it at night.”
“You afraid? Why I don’t believe there’s anything in the world that could scare you, after what I’ve seen.”
“Oh isn’t there? I’m rather afraid of lightning, for one thing.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. You see, it’s a thing that no precaution on earth will guard you against. You can stick up conductors on a house, or any sort of building, but you can’t stick one on your hat, when you’re out in the open. I always feel so utterly helpless.”
“Well, of course it’s risky. But you must remember the very small proportion of people who get hit compared with the numbers who spend a large slice of their lives exposed to it.”
“So I do, but somehow it seems poor consolation when everything is fizzing and banging all round you and you expect every second to be knocked to kingdom come. No. I don’t like it a bit—in the open that is. Under cover, though it’s even a Kafir hut, I don’t mind.”