“Tell us the yarn, Quatermain,” said Good.  “You have often promised to tell me, and you never have.”

“You had better not ask me to,” he answered, “for it is a longish one.”

“All right,” I said, “the evening is young, and there is some more port.”

Thus adjured, he filled his pipe from a jar of coarse-cut Boer tobacco that was always standing on the mantelpiece, and still walking up and down the room, began—­

“It was, I think, in the March of ’69 that I was up in Sikukuni’s country.  It was just after old Sequati’s time, and Sikukuni had got into power—­I forget how.  Anyway, I was there.  I had heard that the Bapedi people had brought down an enormous quantity of ivory from the interior, and so I started with a waggon-load of goods, and came straight away from Middelburg to try and trade some of it.  It was a risky thing to go into the country so early, on account of the fever; but I knew that there were one or two others after that lot of ivory, so I determined to have a try for it, and take my chance of fever.  I had become so tough from continual knocking about that I did not set it down at much.

“Well, I got on all right for a while.  It is a wonderfully beautiful piece of bush veldt, with great ranges of mountains running through it, and round granite koppies starting up here and there, looking out like sentinels over the rolling waste of bush.  But it is very hot—­hot as a stew-pan—­and when I was there that March, which, of course, is autumn in this part of Africa, the whole place reeked of fever.  Every morning, as I trekked along down by the Oliphant River, I used to creep from the waggon at dawn and look out.  But there was no river to be seen—­only a long line of billows of what looked like the finest cotton wool tossed up lightly with a pitchfork.  It was the fever mist.  Out from among the scrub, too, came little spirals of vapour, as though there were hundreds of tiny fires alight in it—­reek rising from thousands of tons of rotting vegetation.  It was a beautiful place, but the beauty was the beauty of death; and all those lines and blots of vapour wrote one great word across the surface of the country, and that word was ‘fever.’

“It was a dreadful year of illness that.  I came, I remember, to one little kraal of Knobnoses, and went up to it to see if I could get some maas, or curdled butter-milk, and a few mealies.  As I drew near I was struck with the silence of the place.  No children began to chatter, and no dogs barked.  Nor could I see any native sheep or cattle.  The place, though it had evidently been recently inhabited, was as still as the bush round it, and some guinea fowl got up out of the prickly pear bushes right at the kraal gate.  I remember that I hesitated a little before going in, there was such an air of desolation about the spot.  Nature never looks desolate when man has not yet laid his hand upon her breast; she is only lonely.  But when man has been, and has passed away, then she looks desolate.