mbered that the
coincidence was purely accidental, for he himself had uncovered the
skull and exposed it to view, and the illusion vanished. And as he
gazed, the beam was withdrawn, leaving the Death's head in its former
shadow.

Leaning back against the rock wall, Blachland began to attune himself to
the situation. At last he had explored the King's grave, he, all by
himself. What a laugh he would have over Sybrandt and Pemberton
bye-and-bye--they who had scouted the feat as utterly impossible. Well,
he had done it, he alone, had done what no white man had ever done
before him--what possibly no white man would ever do again. And--it was
intensely interesting.

And now, what about the buried treasure? He had all through been
sceptical as to the existence of this, but had not insisted on his
scepticism to Hlangulu, lest he might cool that acquisitive savage off
the undertaking. The latter's reply to his question as to how it was
that others were not now in the know as well as he--that the matter was
_hlonipa_, i.e. veiled, forbidden of mention--had not struck him as
satisfactory. Well, as he was here he might as well take a thorough
look round and make sure.

Acting upon this idea he once more approached the skeleton of the dead
King, but a careful search all around it revealed nothing. All around
it? Not quite, for he had not tried behind it. There was a dark recess
extending perhaps three or four yards behind it--to where the cleft
ended, and this too, seemed spread with old and mouldering wrappings.

These he began, as with the others, raking aside with the butt of his
rifle. Then, suddenly his foothold began to tremble--then to move
violently from under him. Was there no end to the weird surprises of
this uncanny place, was the thought that flashed lightning-like through
his mind; and then, as with a superlative effort he just managed to keep
his footing--while staggering back a few paces, there befel something so
appalling that his blood seemed to run ice within him, and the very hair
of his head to stand up.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE KING'S SNAKE.

A loud, awful hiss of ear-splitting stridency--and simultaneously there
shot up, from the very ground as it were, a long, writhing, sinuous
length of black neck, glistening as the half light played upon it--
swaying in the gloom of the recess. It was surmounted by a horrible
head, with two scintillating eyes. The forked tongue was darting in and