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 shores 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 masses 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 massive masonry overshadowed the
spot casting a long dark shadow over the Kaffir's resting-place among
the ruins of Sofala, as snatching 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 masses 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 assegais 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 circumstances, 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 cons