“No,” I answered, “that is unless you wish to meet those Basutos who stole the oxen and Dr. Rodd returning, if he means to return.”

“Oh! let us go through the Yellow-wood,” exclaimed Heda, who, I think, would rather have met the devil than Dr. Rodd.

Ah! if I had but known that we were heading straight for that person, sooner would I have faced the Basutos twice over.  But I did what seemed wisest, thinking that he would be sure to return with another doctor or a magistrate by the shorter and easier path which he had followed in the morning.  It just shows once more how useless are all our care and foresight, or how strong is Fate, have it which way you will.

So we started down the slope, and I, riding behind, noted poor Heda staring at the marble house, which grew ever more beautiful as it receded and the roughness of its building disappeared, especially at that part of it which hid the body of her old scamp of a father whom still she loved.  We came down to the glen and once more saw the bones of the blue wildebeeste that we had shot—­oh! years and years ago, or so it seemed.  Then we struck out for the Granite Stream.

Before we reached the patch of Yellow-wood forest where I knew that the cart must travel very slowly because of the trees and the swampy nature of the ground, I pushed on ahead to reconnoitre, fearing lest there might be Basutos hidden in this cover.  Riding straight through it I went as far as the deserted wagon at a sharp canter, seeing nothing and no one.  Once indeed, towards the end of the wood where it was more dense, I thought that I heard a man cough and peered about me through the gloom, for here the rays of the sun, which was getting low in the heavens, scarcely penetrated.  As I could perceive no one I came to the conclusion that I must have been deceived by my fancy.  Or perhaps it was some baboon that coughed, though it was strange that a baboon should have come to such a low-lying spot where there was nothing for it to eat.

The place was eerie, so much so that I bethought me of tales of the ghosts whereby it was supposed to be haunted.  Also, oddly enough, of Anscombe’s presentiment which he had fulfilled by killing a Basuto.  Look!  There lay his grinning skull with some patches of hair still on it, dragged away from the rest of the bones by a hyena.  I cantered on down the slope beyond the wood and through the scattered thorns to the stream on the banks of which the wagon should be.  It had gone, and by the freshness of the trail, within an hour or two.  A moment’s reflection told me what had happened.  Having stolen our oxen the Basutos drove them to the wagon, inspanned them and departed with their loot.  On the whole I was glad to see this, since it suggested that they had retired towards their own country, leaving our road open.