In despair at length I trekked south to where a ford was reported, which, when reached, proved impracticable.

I tried another, a dozen miles further on, which was very hard to come to over boggy land.  It looked all right and we were getting across finely, when suddenly one of the wheels sank in an unsuspected hole and there we stuck.  Indeed, I believe the waggon, or bits of it, would have remained in the neighbourhood of that ford to this day, had I not managed to borrow some extra oxen belonging to a Christian Kaffir, and with their help to drag it back to the bank whence we had started.

As it happened I was only just in time, since a new storm which had burst further up the river, brought it down in flood again, a very heavy flood.

In this country, England, where I write, there are bridges everywhere and no one seems to appreciate them.  If they think of them at all it is to grumble about the cost of their upkeep.  I wish they could have experienced what a lack of them means in a wild country during times of excessive rain, and the same remark applied to roads.  You should think more of your blessings, my friends, as the old woman said to her complaining daughter who had twins two years running, adding that they might have been triplets.

To return—­after this I confessed myself beaten and gave up until such time as it should please Providence to turn off the water-tap.  Trekking out of sight of that infernal river which annoyed me with its constant gurgling, I camped on a comparatively dry spot that overlooked a beautiful stretch of rolling veld.  Towards sunset the clouds lifted and I saw a mile or two away a most extraordinary mountain on the lower slopes of which grew a dense forest.  Its upper part, which was of bare rock, looked exactly like the seated figure of a grotesque person with the chin resting on the breast.  There was the head, there were the arms, there were the knees.  Indeed, the whole mass of it reminded me strongly of the effigy of Zikali which was tied about my neck, or rather of Zikali himself.

“What is that called?” I said to Hans, pointing to this strange hill, now blazing in the angry fire of the setting sun that had burst out between the storm clouds, which made it appear more ominous even than before.

“That is the Witch Mountain, Baas, where the Chief Umslopogaas and a blood brother of his who carried a great club used to hunt with the wolves.  It is haunted and in a cave at the top of it lie the bones of Nada the Lily, the fair woman whose name is a song, she who was the love of Umslopogaas."[*]

     [*] For the story of Umslopogaas and Nada see the book
     called “Nada the Lily.”—­Editor.

“Rubbish,” I said, though I had heard something of all that story and remembered that Zikali had mentioned this Nada, comparing her beauty to that of another whom once I knew.

“Where then lives the Chief Umslopogaas?”