if few, less so; while if, as sometimes happened, the plant failed to flower, draught and famine were always said to follow.  Truly those were glorious blossoms, standing as high as a man, with their back sheaths of vivid white barred with black, their great pouches of burnished gold and their wide wings also of gold.  Then in the centre of each pouch appeared the ink-mark that did indeed exactly resemble the head of a monkey.  But if this orchid astonished me, its effect upon Stephen, with whom this class of flower was a mania, may be imagined.  Really he went almost mad.  For a long while he glared at the plant, and finally flung himself upon his knees, causing Miss Hope to exclaim: 

“What, O Stephen Somers! do you also make sacrifice to the Holy Flower?”

“Rather,” he answered; “I’d—­I’d—­die for it!”

“You are likely to before all is done,” I remarked with energy, for I hate to see a grown man make a fool of himself.  There’s only one thing in the world which justifies that, and it isn’t a flower.

Mavovo and Hans had followed us into the enclosure, and I overheard a conversation between them which amused me.  The gist of it was that Hans explained to Mavovo that the white people admired this weed—­he called it a weed—­because it was like gold, which was the god they really worshipped, although that god was known among them by many names.  Mavovo, who was not at all interested in the affair, replied with a shrug that it might be so, though for his part he believed the true reason to be that the plant produced some medicine which gave courage or strength.  Zulus, I may say, do not care for flowers unless they bear a fruit that is good to eat.

When I had satisfied myself with the splendour of these magnificent blooms, I asked Mrs. Eversley what certain little mounds might be that were dotted about the enclosure, beyond the circle of cultivated peaty soil which surrounded the orchid’s roots.

“They are the graves of the Mothers of the Holy Flower,” she answered.  “There are twelve of them, and here is the spot chosen for the thirteenth, which was to have been mine.”

To change the subject I asked another question, namely:  If there were more such orchids growing in the country?

“No,” she replied, “or at least I never heard of any.  Indeed, I have always been told that this one was brought from far away generations ago.  Also, under an ancient law, it is never allowed to increase.  Any shoots it sends up beyond this ring must be cut off by me and destroyed with certain ceremonies.  You see that seed-pod which has been left to grow on the stalk of one of last year’s blooms.  It is now ripe, and on the night of the next new moon, when the Kalubi comes to visit me, I must with much ritual burn it in his presence, unless it has burst before he arrives, in which case I must burn any seedlings that may spring up with almost the same ritual.”

“I don’t think the Kalubi will come any more; at least, not while you are here.  Indeed, I am sure of it,” I said.