“Be patient and forgive,” said Tamas at length.  “My father, Mambo, prays to the Munwali and the spirits of his fathers that this coming of yours may be fortunate, and that a vision of those things that are to be may descend upon him.”

Benita, feeling nearly two hundred pairs of eyes concentrated upon her, wished that the vision might come quickly, but after a minute or two fell into tune with the thing, and almost enjoyed this strange experience.  Those mighty ancient walls built by hands unknown, which had seen so much history and so much death; the silent, triple ring of patient, solemn men, the last descendants of a cultured race, the crouching figure hidden beneath the blanket, who imagined himself to be communicating with his god—­it was all very strange, very well worth the seeing to one who had wearied of the monotony of civilization.

Look, the man stirred, and threw back his blanket, revealing a head white with age, a spiritual, ascetic face, so thin that every bone showed in it, and dark eyes which stared upwards unseeingly, like those of a person in a trance.  Thrice he sighed, while his tribesmen watched him.  Then he let his eyes fall upon the three white people seated in front of him.  First he looked at Mr. Clifford, and his face grew troubled; then at Jacob Meyer, and it was anxious and alarmed.  Lastly, he stared at Benita, and while he did so the dark eyes became calm and happy.

“White maiden,” he said in a soft, low voice, “for you, at least, I have good tidings.  Though Death come near to you, though you see him on your right hand and your left, and in front of you and behind you, I say, fear not.  Here you, who have known deep sorrow, shall find happiness and rest, O maiden, with whom goes the spirit of one pure and fair as you, who died so long ago.”

Then, while Benita wondered at his words, spoken with such sweet earnestness that although she believed nothing of them, they brought a kind of comfort to her, he looked once more at her father and Jacob Meyer, and, as it were with an effort, was silent.

“Have you no pleasant prophecy for me, old friend,” said Jacob, “who have come so far to hear it?”

At once the aged face grew inscrutable, all expression vanished behind a hundred wrinkles, and he answered: 

“None, white man—­none that I am charged to deliver.  Search the skies for yourself, you who are so wise, and read them if you can.  Lords,” he went on in another voice, “I greet you in the name and presence of my children.  Son Tamas, I greet you also; you have done your mission well.  Listen, now—­you are weary and would rest and eat; still, bear with me, for I have a word to say.  Look around you.  You see all my tribe, not twenty times ten above the age of boys, we who once were countless as the leaves on yonder trees in spring.  Why are we dead?  Because of the Amandabele, those fierce dogs whom, two generations ago, Moselikatse, the general of Chaka, brought up to the south of us, who ravish us and kill us year by year.