“The black grime and the dirt of ages seems encrusted on the slabs of Gorongoza,” remarked the missionary. “I can feel that there is an inscription, but I can’t make it out. The dirt has become like stone, and will want long softening, before we can scoop it out.”
“It seems to me, as far as fingers can tell, that the cuttings are of European form. This would go against your theory, Wyzinski.”
“We will see that to-morrow,” was the reply, as rising and shutting their knives the two took their way down to the plain, speculating moodily on the probable history of the slabs of Gorongoza.
The night set in wild and stormy, the thunder echoing among the mountains, and the rain falling in torrents, but when morning dawned, waking up the wild ducks among the long reeds, and bringing them out on the clear waters of the Golden River, rousing up the parrots and the monkeys in the neighbouring groves, and hushing the cries of the jackals on the plains, the air was cool and pleasant.
Clothes hung on the branches near, drying in the sunshine; rifles and guns were being cleaned, the fires were lighted, and the never ceasing process of cooking was going on. Luji and one of the Kaffirs were drawing the sides of a buffalo hide together by means of a string, so as to carry water, working under Hughes’s direction. The missionary was busy with a small tool-chest, carefully selecting the objects which would aid in the proposed search. The leopard’s skin, stretched on two sticks, was drying in the morning sunshine, and the baboon dodging here and there, doing all the mischief possible, and stealing everything it could lay its hands upon.
Seizing on a wild duck, just ready for the fire, the incorrigible ape bounded off with it, pursued by one of the Kaffirs. The monkey gained the neighbouring grove, and plunged in, followed by its pursuer. The next moment the animal dashed back, having dropped the bird, evidently terribly alarmed, and chattering its teeth, took refuge with Luji.
“There is something in the bush, Luji,” said Hughes, snatching up his rifle. “Wyzinski, look out, there is something wrong yonder.”
The Kaffir, who had pursued the ape, had halted, and was staring fixedly in the direction of the wood.
“There’s the solution of the mystery,” returned the missionary, calmly, continuing his work as though nothing had happened, while one by one in Indian file, some fifty men, fully armed, and evidently belonging to a tribe not yet met with, stepped out of the wood and advanced towards the little camp. Halting about thirty paces distant, the party squatted on the ground, holding their long assegais in their hands, and having their shields in readiness apparently for attack.
“Do you observe,” remarked the missionary, raising his head from his work, “those men have none of the length of limb of the Zulu race, but are, on the contrary, small of stature and villainously ugly? There is the chief advancing towards us.”