The day was sultry, with a hot steam rising from the marshy lowlands, and they soon sought the welcome shade of the baobab, whose wide-spreading branches sent down roots to the ground. The ground beneath, in a wide circle, had been trampled bare of grass by buffalo and wild beast, which had here resorted to rub their tough hides against the rough stems; there were the remains, too, of old fires, and on the parent trunk, high up, where the bark was smooth, the handiwork of some roving white man, who had deeply scored his initials.
“It is quite a fresh scar,” said Webster, noticing the marks.
“By Jove, yes! and made within the day; for, see, here are parts of the old bark on the ground. What is it? D.H.—the initials of my uncle.”
“Baas,” said Klaas warningly; “here come men.”
They started round, snatched up their rifles, and looked about to see a small body of natives hesitating whether to advance or not.
“Advance,” said Hume in Zulu.
The leading man at once stepped forward, the others following, and in a few moments six stalwart natives, armed with assegais and shields, were looking curiously at the small party of whites.
“Greeting, inkose,” said the leader in deep tones, looking out of the corner of his eye at Miss Anstrade.
“To you also,” said Hume quietly.
The men stood silent for a full minute; but their quick glances took in every detail, coming back always to the slender form of the white lady.