I lay a while drawing in the sweet air which to me was like a draught of nectar, and wondering whether I were not still in a dream.  For instance, I wondered if I had truly seen the figures of Anscombe and Heda pass the mouth of the cave, on that day when I awoke, or if these were but another of Zikali’s illusions imprinted on my weakened mind by his will power.  For of what he and Nombe told me I believed nothing.  Thus marvelling I fell into a doze and in my doze heard whisperings.  I opened my eyes and lo! there before me stood Anscombe and Heda.  It was she who spoke the first, for I was tongue-tied; I could not open my lips.

“Dear Mr. Quatermain, dear Mr. Quatermain!” she murmured in her sweet voice, then paused.

Now at last words came to me.  “I thought you were both dead,” I said.  “Tell me, are you really alive?”

She bent down and kissed my brow, while Anscombe took my hand.

“Now you know,” she answered.  “We are both of us alive and well.”

“Thank God!” I exclaimed.  “Kaatje swore that she saw you dead and buried.”

“One sees strange things in the Black Kloof,” replied Anscombe speaking for the first time, “and much has happened to us since we were parted, to which you are not strong enough to listen now.  When you are better, then we will tell you all.  So grow well as soon as you can.”

After this I think I fainted, for when I came to myself again I was back in the cave.

Another ten days or so went by before I could even leave my bed, for my recovery was very slow.  Indeed for weeks I could scarcely walk at all, and six whole months passed before I really got my strength again and became as I used to be.  During those days I often saw Anscombe and Heda, but only for a few minutes at a time.  Also occasionally Zikali would visit me, speaking a little, generally about past history, or something of the sort, but never of the war, and go away.  At length one day he said to me—­

“Macumazahn, now I am sure you are going to live, a matter as to which I was doubtful, even after you seemed to recover.  For, Macumazahn, you have endured three shocks, of which to-day I am not afraid to talk to you.  First there was that of the battle of Isandhlwana where you were the last white man left alive.”

“How do you know that, Zikali?” I asked.

“It does not matter.  I do know.  Did you not ride through the Zulus who parted this way and that before you, shouting what you could not understand?  One of them you may remember even saluted with his spear.”

“I did, Zikali.  Tell me, why did they behave thus, and what did they shout?”

“I shall not tell you, Macumazahn.  Think over it for the rest of your life and conclude what you choose; it will not be so wonderful as the truth.  At least they did so, as a certain doll I dressed up yonder in the Vale of Bones told you they would, she whose advice you followed in riding towards Ulundi instead of back to the river where you would have met your death, like so many others of the white people.”