the British side, but at this
time I was only hunting.

One day, prowling about the jungle with a Kaffir to carry my cartridges
and a spare rifle, I suddenly came upon an unexpected sight.

A young man, apparently a native, lay by a pool of water at the foot of
a tree, breathing, as it seemed to me, his last breath. He moaned a
little when he saw us approaching, and made a feeble effort to rise and
reach the club which lay at his side.

Finding that he was not going to be attacked, he gave up the effort, and
lay breathing heavily.

'He is ill,' said I to the Kaffir; 'ask him whether he is in pain, and
what ails him.'

The Kaffir knew something of the Bantu-Matabele dialect, and spoke to
the man, who replied in gasps.

'He say,' the Kaffir reported, 'want food; drank bad water, poisoned by
Matabeles; better now, but want eat.'

This was a need which was easily supplied. I had plenty of food with me,
biscuits and tinned tongue, which I had brought for my lunch. I gave him
this, and something to drink. He ate and drank greedily, which nearly
choked him. He looked gratefully at me, and I placed him in a sitting
posture with his back to a tree, and gave him a couple of prunes, which
were evidently a novelty to him, and afforded him great delight.

The Kaffir, who rejoiced in the name of Billy, conversed with the young
fellow from time to time, and suddenly Billy burst out laughing; a piece
of rude behaviour which greatly shocked him the next moment, for he
placed his hand over his mouth and looked very ashamed of himself.

'What is it, Billy?' I asked him.

'He say his people call him "White Witch,"' said Billy. 'He say, "I
t'ink I white man like your master."'

Billy again burst out laughing, and again stifled the laugh in shocked
surprise at his own rudeness.

I gazed at the sick youth with new curiosity and interest. I examined
his features: there was nothing of the low-caste negro type about him,
that was clear; but then it often happens that a Zulu or a Matabele is
born with features which resemble those of a higher type of humanity.

'Ask him why they call him "White Witch,"' said I.

After a long talk with our new friend, Billy apparently gave up the
attempt to solve this mystery.

'No understand,' he told me; 'he talk nonsense--much nonsense; not tell
any truth.'

'What's his name?' I next asked.

'Umkopo,' said Billy. 'Dat not white man name--dat Matabele name.'

Billy looked so disgusted, an