“No, thank you very much,” I answered, “we must get back to the wagon or our servants will think that we have come to grief.  Perhaps you will accept the wildebeeste if it is of any use to you.”

“Very well,” he said in a voice that suggested regret struggling with relief.  To the buck he made no allusion, perhaps because he considered that it was already his own property.  “Do you know your way?  I believe your wagon is camped out there to the east by what we call the Granite stream.  If you follow this Kaffir path,” and he pointed to a track near by, “it will take you quite close.”

“Where does the path run to?” I asked.  “There are no kraals about, are there?”

“Oh! to the Temple, as my daughter calls our house.  My partner and I are labour agents, we recruit natives for the Kimberley Mines,” he said in explanation, adding, “Where do you propose to shoot?”

I told him.

“Isn’t that rather a risky district?” he said.  “I think that Sekukuni will soon be giving more trouble, although there is a truce between him and the English.  Still he might send a regiment to raid that way.”

I wondered how our friend knew so much of Sekukuni’s possible intentions, but only answered that I was accustomed to deal with natives and did not fear them.

“Ah!” he said, “well, you know your own business best.  But if you should get into any difficulty, make straight for this place.  The Basutos will not interfere with you here.”

Again I wondered why the Basutos should look upon this particular spot as sacred, but thinking it wisest to ask no questions, I only answered—­

“Thank you very much.  We’ll bear your invitation in mind, Mr.—­”

“Marnham.”

“Marnham,” I repeated after him.  “Good-bye and many thanks for your kindness.”

“One question,” broke in Anscombe, “if you will not think me rude.  What is the name of the architect who designed that most romantic-looking house of yours which seems to be built of marble?”

“My daughter designed it, or at least I think she copied it from some old drawing of a ruin.  Also it is marble; there’s a whole hill of the stuff not a hundred yards from the door, so it was cheaper to use than anything else.  I hope you will come and see it on your way back, though it is not as fine as it appears from a distance.  It would be very pleasant after all these years to talk to an English gentleman again.”

Then we parted, I rather offended because he did not seem to include me in the description, he calling after us—­

“Stick close to the path through the patch of big trees, for the ground is rather swampy there and it’s getting dark.”

Presently we came to the place he mentioned where the timber, although scattered, was quite large for South Africa, of the yellow-wood species, and interspersed wherever the ground was dry with huge euphorbias, of which the tall finger-like growths and sad grey colouring looked unreal and ghostlike in the waning light.  Following the advice given to us, we rode in single file along the narrow path, fearing lest otherwise we should tumble into some bog hole, until we came to higher land covered with the scattered thorns of the country.