“Good-night, Wyzinski,” was the only answer vouchsafed; and they both turned in laughing.
Passing Quissanga and Goanha, the little caravan kept steadily on to the northward, making short marches daily, until a period of three weeks had elapsed since they had outspanned from the banks of the Limpopo. Their camp was pitched at the foot of the spur of the Nyamonga mountain range called Gorongoza. It was a pleasant spot, and here they determined to rest a while. Several streams of bright, clear, cold water burst from the mountains, and, after wandering about for some distance, threw themselves into a river, which ran away towards the sea. Forests of the cedar-trees clothed the mountain-sides, and to these Wyzinski pointed triumphantly, asserting that they must now be close to the ruins, “There they are,” would he say; “and though there may exist a marked difference between them and the far-famed cedar of Lebanon, though they may have degenerated since the days when Pharaoh Necho’s seamen lived under their shade, yet in those cedar groves lie the fallen ruins of the old cities of Zulu land, and there is enough timber to supply the world.”
“I wonder what we should do without the custard-apples?” said Hughes, the evening of the day when they arrived at Gorongoza.
“But why call it custard-apple, Hughes?”
“Because it is exactly like the custard-apple of the Madras Presidency, black, rough, and repulsive-looking outside, and a white, delicious custard inside, cool as if iced. It grows plentifully, like blackberries, up-country there.”
“Well, I almost prefer the mobala fruit. Under the tropical sun, which, by the way, has tanned you to a mahogany colour, Hughes, it reminds one of the strawberries of England. I shall open a campaign against the wild duck. There seems lots of them.”
“Here comes the Matabele chief; what has he got? Eggs, ducks’ eggs, as I am a sinner. Won’t that be a treat after weeks of venison diet?”
The chief gravely stalked up to the two, and placing his eggs on the ground, squatted down, and looking the missionary full in the face, pointed down the course of the river, merely uttering the word “Sofala,” then changing the direction of his finger, pointed to the north-west, letting fall the dreaded word, “Tetsé.”
The two Europeans looked at each other. A volume could not have better expressed his meaning. Down the stream lay the ruins which had been formerly mentioned. Right in their onward path was the dreaded tetse-fly, sure death to cattle.
“Let us hold a council of war, Wyzinski,” said Hughes, after the two had looked at each other in dead silence. “Here, Luji, come here. We are going to have a palaver.”