d they
haven't burnt it," pointing out a collection of buildings about a mile
from the site of the great kraal.

"So it is. Wonder if it means a trap though," said another of the
scouts. "By Jingo! There's some one signalling up there. I'll bet my
bottom dollar it's a white man by the look of him. And--there are two
of 'em."

Such was in fact the case--and the biggest surprise of all came off when
a couple of white traders, well known to most of them, came forward to
welcome them to the conquered and now razed capital. There these two
had dwelt throughout the campaign, often in peril, but protected by the
word of the King. Lo Bengula had burnt his capital and fled, taking
with him the bulk of the nation. He, the dreaded and haughty potentate
of the North, whose rule had been synonymous with a terror and a
scourge, had gone down before a mere handful of whites, he, the dusky
barbarian, the cruel despot, according to popular report revelling in
bloodshed and suffering, had taken his revenge. He had protected these
two white men alone in his power--had left them, safe and sound in
person, unharmed even in their possessions, to welcome the invading
conquerors, their countrymen, to the blazing ruins of his once proud
home. Such the revenge of this savage.

The Southern Column did not arrive till some days after the first
occupation of Bulawayo, and some little time elapsed, resting and
waiting for necessary supplies, before the new expedition should start
northward, to effect if possible, the capture of the fugitive King.
Several up-country going men were here foregathered.

"I say, Blachland," said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to the
southward, "We didn't reckon to meet again like this last time when we
broke camp yonder on the Matya'mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out of
the country? Eh?"

"Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?"

"I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?"

"Here, let's have another tot all round," interrupted Pemberton who, by
the way, had had just as many as were good for him. "You ain't going to
nobble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don't you think it."

"Who says so, Pemberton?"

"I say so. Didn't I say Blachland 'ud never get to Umzilikazi's grave?
Didn't I? Well, he never did."

Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzical
glance which passed between Blachland and Sybrandt--who was in the
know--at t