About one o'clock that day the bar was reached, and the three gazed upon the long blue line of ocean, with its restless waves, tipped with foam.

"I had no idea the river was so marshy at its mouth, nor that we should find a bar," said Hughes.

"There is almost invariably one at the mouth of African rivers; and look at the herons fishing. There are quant.i.ties of these birds, and they seem smaller than any I have seen before. What a beautiful dark purple; and the throat, too, streaked with purple lines, only they have no tail," said Wyzinski. "And the birds' nests, only see what a number of them; they actually overhang the water, seeming to all but touch the river."

"That is almost always the case where snakes abound," replied the missionary. "The birds know that water is their best protector from these reptiles; and these are the nest builders, those bright yellow birds scarce seven inches long. How active they are."

In truth the river abounded with life. There were hawks and eagles soaring near, birds of beautiful colours darting to and fro. The kingfisher, with its heavy scarlet bill, and its wings of bright blue, came dashing past, while another and even more beautiful bird kept crossing before the canoe as if accompanying it, its head a bright green colour, with wings of purple and green mixed, and long dark purple tail.

"Well, I am not sorry to see the blue waves once more, and to hear the scream of the gulls and Mother Carey's chickens," exclaimed Hughes, as they stepped on sh.o.r.e, and hauled the canoe up bodily on the bank.

"Look yonder, under the palm and date-trees, are some Kaffir huts. Let us see what they are," said Wyzinski.

Telling Masheesh to stop by the boat, which yet contained the body of the dead Noti, the two took their way to the kraal. There were about twenty huts, and the tribe seemed very poor. The first group they came to was composed of women.

"There, Hughes," said the missionary, "that smacks of Egyptian customs, anyway."

"What does?" inquired the other. "I see nothing but some women grinding maize."

"Just so, but look at the mode of doing it. The old Egyptian hieroglyphics exactly reproduce it."

This was indeed the case, but the chief of the tribe now advanced to meet them. He was a tall long-limbed man of a deep brown tint, with grey hair and regular features--not in any one respect resembling the Kaffirs, except as to dress, or rather the want of it.

"Well, that is strange," remarked Hughes. "If I was in India, I should say I saw an Arab. Speak to him, Wyzinski."

The missionary, using the Zulu dialect, asked his name.

"Achmet Ben Arif," replied the man. "It is the first time for many years the trader has reached the ruins of Sofala."

"Ruins!" exclaimed Wyzinski, at once mounting his favourite hobby, "where are they?"

The Arab, for such in effect he was, together with all his tribe, raised his hand, pointing to a spot a few hundred yards distant, where mounds and fragments of fallen masonry were visible.

The missionary was moving away before the chief had done speaking, eager to reach the ruins.

"But how," asked Hughes, speaking his own tongue, which he had acquired in India, "how comes an Arab tribe settled here?"

"We know not," replied the chief. "For ages have our fathers lived here, near the ruins of the white man's fort."

"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 _Tete_ 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 ma.s.ses 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.

"You are blind, Hughes, or will not see," returned the other, in a sharp tone. "Did not Masheesh call yonder river the Golden River--and why?"

"Because gold may have been found in its banks, or on its bar. The thing is simple enough, Wyzinski."

"It is you that are simple," said the excited man. "The river brought down the boats with their cargo of gold, dug near the sources of the Limpopo. The Sofala of the Portuguese is the Ophir of Solomon. Here the ships of Tarshish came, and from that trade in gold the river took, and still keeps its name--the Golden River."

There was nothing for it but to accept the dogma. The Arab chief looked on in grave silence, but no further information could be extracted from him, and except the direct visual evidence that a strong stone fort had existed here, which was known to have been Portuguese, nothing could be discovered. The ruins were nearly buried in sand, but there they still remain on the sh.o.r.es of South Africa, the fort of Sofala being well-known to all the traders on the coast, and the high headland near them being a much-used landmark for mariners. The moon rose, and Masheesh having borrowed a hoe, the whole party set to work to bury their dead. They took it in turns, the Matabele chief at first objecting, but ultimately taking his spell at it. Wyzinski was in the hole, working vigorously and silently, the regular roll of the ocean on the bar being the only sound heard. Masheesh was squatted by the open grave, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them, the palms of his hands supporting his head. Hughes stood gazing over the broad expanse of the Indian Ocean, with his forage-cap in his hand, the cool sea breeze playing amidst the heavy ma.s.ses of dark hair which waved uncared for over his sun-burnt forehead. Suddenly the vigorous strokes of the hoe ceased, its sharp broad edge had struck something, and the missionary stooping lifted that something, tossed it on the bank, and jumped out of the grave. A piece of ma.s.sive masonry overshadowed the spot casting a long dark shadow over the Kaffir's resting-place among the ruins of Sofala, as s.n.a.t.c.hing up what looked like a mere stone, Wyzinski stepped into the moonlight and began rubbing away the sand and dust from what proved to be a bar of pure gold, evidently smelted and worked into its present shape. It was a curious sight, the moon shining brightly on the ruined ma.s.ses of masonry, streaming over the rolling ocean waves, lighting up the date and palmyra trees, with their long fan-like leaves, and showing the group eagerly bending over the gold, while stiff and stark beside them lay the dead body of the Kaffir, Noti.

Then came a warning cry from the Matabele warrior, and the next moment a line of dusky savages, armed with their a.s.segais and war-clubs, swept round them.

It was a peculiarity of the missionary's never to lose the quiet calmness of his manner, under any circ.u.mstances, however trying. The greater the danger the more quiet, cool, and methodical he seemed to become. Unarmed, for their rifles were in the canoe, and consequently utterly defenceless, the whole party stood among the ruins of Sofala, surrounded by the warriors of the Arab tribe, while Wyzinski, as if nothing more than ordinary had happened, seated himself on a ruined slab, more accurately to examine the bar of gold.

The old chief Achmet advanced, and using the Arab tongue, addressed the soldier, who felt none of the stern coolness of the missionary.

"I thought the white men were not merchants, and refused gold," the old man remarked. "They are then thieves who rob, and not fair traders who barter."

"We found the gold by chance, chief."

The Arab laughed. "The white men came down the river by chance, to the very spot where we find from time to time the gold buried; by chance they dig for it and find it. Let them not laugh at an old man, whose grey hairs will not bear it. Mashallah, let them give back the gold, or my children take it."

"You are welcome, chief," replied the soldier, taking the bar from Wyzinski, who seemed sunk in reverie, and giving it to Achmet. "And now withdraw your warriors, and let us finish what we are about."

"Are the white men murderers as well as gold seekers?" asked Achmet Ben Arif, pointing to the dead body which lay dark and motionless in the moonlight.

"Look for yourself, chief. The wounds will tell their own tale,"

answered the other.

The old man bent over the corpse, putting his hand on the torn face, and feeling the broken ribs. His fingers followed the wounds for several minutes, then rising, "It is a lion which has done this," he said.

"It is, chief," and Hughes told how the death had occurred.

Achmet turned to his warriors, spoke a few words with them, when they retired, vanishing among the trees as silently as they had appeared, the old chief alone remaining.

"And you say," asked Wyzinski, "that you often find worked and smelted gold here?"

"Yes," replied the chief, "often."

"It is Portuguese, and wherever they have drawn it from is the country we seek, the ancient Ophir of Solomon. There can be no doubt of that."

"Let the white men bury their dead," answered Achmet; "and let them seek Machin, chief of Manica, and the Makoapa."