“And yet you have preserved the Arab language, and the Arab blood.”
“Pure and unchanged, our customs, language and tradition remain as they were; the dress of our people alone is altered. And instead of the bournous of our fathers, we wear skins like the Kaffir. It is our destiny. We have gold if the white chiefs will trade.”
“We are not traders, chief. But what are the ruins yonder? Who built them?”
“The fathers of your own people; the white traders of Tété and the Zambesi.”
These, then, were the ruins of the Portuguese fort of Sofala, consequently the river the party had descended, which Masheesh called the Golden River, was once the means of extensive trade with the interior. Leaving the chief, Hughes joined the missionary, communicating to him the result of his conversation. The ruins of a large stone fort were crumbling away before them, the masses of fallen masonry gradually disappearing before the slow but steady action of time, besides being partially buried in the sand drifted up before the winter gales. The Arab chief followed them, after having spoken to the men near him, several of whom started off in different directions, two sauntering lazily down to the boat. The old man seemed puzzled as to what interest could attach to the ruins.
“The stones,” said he, raising his hand as he spoke, and pointing over the ocean, whose waves were rolling in thunder on the bar,—“the stones came from over the big water to build the white man’s fort.”
“That’s nonsense,” exclaimed the missionary, speaking in English, and wandering from mound to mound. “They were taken from some ruins in the interior, and it is those we seek. The mined cities of Zulu land.”
“How firmly you have got that into your head, Wyzinski,” replied his companion.
“Into my head. Do you not see, do you not remember what Masheesh told us this morning?” returned the missionary in an excited tone. “Away yonder to the north and west, running through a territory disputed between Mozelkatse and Machin, are the rivers Thati and Ramaquotan. There lie the gold fields of Solomon somewhere in that neighbourhood; the ruined cities of the mighty old Egyptians, the ancient gold diggers, crumble into dust.”
“You are crazy on the subject, Wyzinski. What has an old Portuguese fort to do with all this?” replied Hughes, seriously.