Here, then, was a confirmation of all his theories. Here the vast ruins among the gold fields of king Solomon; here the source of the Sabe, or Golden River, down whose stream the boats of bygone days floated gold, cedar-wood, and precious stones. An Englishman’s first impulse at once seized on Hughes, and, yielding to it, the two exchanged a vigorous shake of the hand.
“What could induce Umhleswa to tell us such an untruth?” were the first words which broke from the missionary’s lips.
“Because the ruins are sacred, and these people believe no rain will fall for three years if they be molested,” was the reply. A sense of the danger now stole upon the missionary’s mind as his comrade spoke.
“Hughes, I shall go on; but I have no right and no wish to endanger your life. Leave the adventure to me; return to camp while there is yet time.”
The soldier’s face flushed to the roots of his hair, and he made no reply, simply grasping his rifle and moving forward.
“Stay,” urged the missionary, laying his hand on the other’s shoulder, “I meant no unkindness. As a matter of simple prudence you ought to return. If harm happened to one of us, it would not matter as far as the world is concerned; if to both, this secret would be lost with us.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” replied Hughes, firmly, “but come along. We are comrades in danger as in all else. What one shares, the other does too. This must have been once a vast pile.”
“Gold, cedars, and now the ruins; we have found all,” muttered the missionary, as, yielding the point, he strode onward, once more sinking into reverie.
There rose right in front of them two massive ruins of pyramidical form, which must at one time have been of great height. Even now, broken and fallen as they were, the solid bases only remaining, they were noble and imposing. Part had come tumbling down, in one jumbled mass, into the bed of the river, while the dwarf acacia and palm were shooting up among the stones, breaking and disjointing them. The two gazed long and silently at these vast mounds, the very memory of whose builders had passed away.
Awe-struck and surprised, they sat down by the stream, and, without exchanging a word, drank of the clear water. Their clothes torn, hands and faces bleeding from the exertions made in forcing their way through the bush, their skin tanned to a deep mahogany colour, there they stood at last among the ruined cities of a lost race. By the banks of the stream the pomegranate, the plantain, and the mango, were growing in wild luxuriance—trees not known in the land, consequently imported.