"You are right. We will sleep to-night. In the early morning, long before you are up, we will be far on our way. Good-night, and thank you for all your kindness," said Petrus, handing the kind Kafir a sovereign to aid him in his work.
"Then 'good-night,' my boy, I wish you success and God-speed."
CHAPTER IX
A ZULU WAR-DANCE
It was a glorious December morning. Petrus and Mutla were again in their saddles. Ladysmith and a near-by ostrich farm were soon left far behind. Then they forded the historic Tugela, which barely came up to their ponies' knees.
They made good play at a swinging gallop, threading their way in and out through Natal's tree-covered hills.
The country through which they were hastening was of indescribable beauty—a veritable fairyland with its rushing streams, beautiful forests of sweet-scented evergreens, graceful palm-trees and masses of strange and beautiful wildflowers.
Petrus and Mutla were in the land of the black man, from the melancholy-faced Hindoo cooly to the blackest of black Zulus.