“Follow the coast-line,” returned the other. “There lies Sofala, and some forty or fifty miles more to the north the Zambesi must empty itself into the sea at Quillimane.”
“Livingstone came as far south as that, and as far north from the Cape as the Limpopo.”
“He did: but instead of travelling further north as we have done, he turned to the westward, visiting the Bechuanas and Mozelkatse’s country; but see, what on earth can that be?”
The missionary pointed to a kind of cairn on the mountain-side. Beside it lay six slabs of stone, and that they were the work of the white man was evident. Cracked, blackened, and defaced, there was no mistake, the stones were worked into flat slabs, but whose were the hands that fashioned them?
“There seems to be an inscription,” said Wyzinski, as he stooped over them. “I feel deep marks in the stone, but the earth has given way beneath them, and creeping plants have grown over them. All these three are cracked and broken.”
“Here are three out of the six in a better state,” said Hughes. “We can cut away the undergrowth.”
“If we can get at one only that will be sufficient,” said Wyzinski, eagerly, as the two cut away at the masses of weed with their knives. “Should there be any inscription, we may gain some knowledge to guide our future course.”
It took a long time and much labour to clear away the undergrowth, and then but to meet with disappointment.
“The different wandering tribes who have camped here have used the slabs as fire-places,” observed Wyzinski, sighing. “We must have water, and how can we get it here.”
“Oh, easily,” replied Hughes, whose experience of Indian life came to his aid. “With a buffalo hide we can make a bag which will hold water, and can be carried on a man’s back. We call them bheasties in Madras.”