At length the last platform, or terrace, was reached, and we pulled up outside the wall surrounding the central group of marble huts—­for so I must call them, for want of a better name.  Our approach had been observed by a crowd of natives, whose race I have never been able to determine accurately; they belonged to the Basutu and peaceful section of the Bantu peoples rather than to the Zulu and warlike.  Several of these ran up to take the horses, gazing on us with astonishment, not unmixed with awe.  We dismounted—­speaking for myself, not without difficulty—­indeed, had it not been for Stella’s support I should have fallen.

“Now you must come and see my father,” she said.  “I wonder what he will think of it, it is all so strange.  Hendrika, take the child to my hut and give her milk, then put her into my bed; I will come presently.”

Hendrika went off with a somewhat ugly grin to do her mistress’s bidding, and Stella led the way through the narrow gateway in the marble wall, which may have enclosed nearly half an “erf,” or three-quarters of an acre of ground in all.  It was beautifully planted as a garden, many European vegetables and flowers were growing in it, besides others with which I was not acquainted.  Presently we came to the centre hut, and it was then that I noticed the extraordinary beauty and finish of the marble masonry.  In the hut, and facing the gateway, was a modern door, rather rudely fashioned of Buckenhout, a beautiful reddish wood that has the appearance of having been sedulously pricked with a pin.  Stella opened it, and we entered.  The interior of the hut was the size of a large and lofty room, the walls being formed of plain polished marble.  It was lighted somewhat dimly, but quite effectively, by peculiar openings in the roof, from which the rain was excluded by overhanging eaves.  The marble floor was strewn with native mats and skins of animals.  Bookcases filled with books were placed against the walls, there was a table in the centre, chairs seated with rimpi or strips of hide stood about, and beyond the table was a couch on which a man was lying reading.

“Is that you, Stella?” said a voice, that even after so many years seemed familiar to me.  “Where have you been, my dear?  I began to think that you had lost yourself again.”

“No, father, dear, I have not lost myself, but I have found somebody else.”

At that moment I stepped forward so that the light fell on me.  The old gentleman on the couch rose with some difficulty and bowed with much courtesy.  He was a fine-looking old man, with deep-set dark eyes, a pale face that bore many traces of physical and mental suffering, and a long white beard.

“Be welcome, sir,” he said.  “It is long since we have seen a white face in these wilds, and yours, if I am not mistaken, is that of an Englishman.  There has been but one Englishman here for twelve years, and he, I grieve to say, was an outcast flying from justice,” and he bowed again and stretched out his hand.