“Just so, but look at the mode of doing it. The old Egyptian hieroglyphics exactly reproduce it.”
This was indeed the case, but the chief of the tribe now advanced to meet them. He was a tall long-limbed man of a deep brown tint, with grey hair and regular features—not in any one respect resembling the Kaffirs, except as to dress, or rather the want of it.
“Well, that is strange,” remarked Hughes. “If I was in India, I should say I saw an Arab. Speak to him, Wyzinski.”
The missionary, using the Zulu dialect, asked his name.
“Achmet Ben Arif,” replied the man. “It is the first time for many years the trader has reached the ruins of Sofala.”
“Ruins!” exclaimed Wyzinski, at once mounting his favourite hobby, “where are they?”
The Arab, for such in effect he was, together with all his tribe, raised his hand, pointing to a spot a few hundred yards distant, where mounds and fragments of fallen masonry were visible.
The missionary was moving away before the chief had done speaking, eager to reach the ruins.
“But how,” asked Hughes, speaking his own tongue, which he had acquired in India, “how comes an Arab tribe settled here?”
“We know not,” replied the chief. “For ages have our fathers lived here, near the ruins of the white man’s fort.”