Again Mr. Clifford made no direct answer, only asked a question: 

“How long will it take to get the guns and ammunition, and what will they cost?”

“About a week from Wakkerstroom,” replied Meyer.  “Old Potgieter, the trader there, has just imported a hundred Martinis and a hundred Westley-Richards falling-blocks.  Fifty of each, with ten thousand rounds of cartridges, will cost about L600, and we have as much as that in the bank; also we have the new waggon, and plenty of good oxen and horses.  We can take a dozen of the horses with us, and sell them in the north of the Transvaal for a fine price, before we get into the tetsefly belt.  The oxen will probably carry us through, as they are most of them salted.”

“You have thought it all out, Jacob, I see; but it means a lot of money one way and another, to say nothing of other things.”

“Yes, a lot of money, and those rifles are too good for Kaffirs.  Birmingham gas-pipes would have done for them, but there are none to be had.  But what is the money, and what are the guns, compared to all they will bring us?”

“I think you had better ask my daughter, Jacob.  She seems to have her own ideas upon the subject.”

“Miss Clifford has made up her mind, and it will not change.  I shall ask her no more,” replied Meyer.

Then he, too, left the room, to give orders about the journey to Wakkerstroom that he must take upon the morrow.  But Mr. Clifford sat there till past midnight, wondering whether he had done right, and if they would find the treasure of which he had dreamed for years, and what the future had in store for them.

If only he could have seen!

When Benita came to breakfast the next morning, she asked where Mr. Meyer was, and learned that he had already departed for Wakkerstroom.

“Certainly he is in earnest,” she said with a laugh.

“Yes,” answered her father; “Jacob is always in earnest, though, somehow, his earnestness has not brought him much good so far.  If we fail, it will not be want of thought and preparation on his part.”

Nearly a week went by before Meyer returned again, and meanwhile Benita made ready for her journey.  In the intervals of her simple preparations also she talked a good deal, with the help of her father, to the three sturdy-looking Makalanga, who were resting thankfully after their long journey.  Their conversation was general, since by tacit consent no further mention was made of the treasure or of anything to do with it, but it enabled her to form a fair opinion of them and their people.  She gathered that although they spoke a dialect of Zulu, they had none of the bravery of the Zulus, and indeed lived in deadly terror of the Matabele, who are bastard Zulus—­such terror, in fact, that she greatly doubted whether the hundred rifles would be of much use to them, should they ever be attacked by that tribe.