“In a queer place.  As I told you, I have visited South Africa before, under different circumstances.  Four years ago I was out here big-game shooting.  Going in from the East coast my brother and I—­he is dead now, poor fellow—­got up somewhere in the Matabele country, on the banks of the Zambesi.  As we didn’t find much game there we were going to strike south, when some natives told us of a wonderful ruin that stood on a hill overhanging the river a few miles farther on.  So, leaving the waggon on the hither side of the steep nek, over which it would have been difficult to drag it, my brother and I took our rifles and a bag of food and started.  The place was farther off than we thought, although from the top of the nek we could see it clearly enough, and before we reached it dark had fallen.

“Now we had observed a waggon and a tent outside the wall which we thought must belong to white men, and headed for them.  There was a light in the tent, and the flap was open, the night being very hot.  Inside two men were seated, one old, with a grey beard, and the other, a good-looking fellow—­under forty, I should say—­with a Jewish face, dark, piercing eyes, and a black, pointed beard.  They were engaged in examining a heap of gold beads and bangles, which lay on the table between them.  As I was about to speak, the black-bearded man heard or caught sight of us, and seizing a rifle that leaned against the table, swung round and covered me.

“‘For God’s sake don’t shoot, Jacob,’ said the old man; ’they are English.’

“‘Best dead, any way,’ answered the other, in a soft voice, with a slight foreign accent, ‘we don’t want spies or thieves here.’

“‘We are neither, but I can shoot as well as you, friend,’ I remarked, for by this time my rifle was on him.

“Then he thought better of it, and dropped his gun, and we explained that we were merely on an archaeological expedition.  The end of it was that we became capital friends, though neither of us could cotton much to Mr. Jacob—­I forget his other name.  He struck me as too handy with his rifle, and was, I gathered, an individual with a mysterious and rather lurid past.  To cut a long story short, when he found out that we had no intention of poaching, your father, for it was he, told us frankly that they were treasure-hunting, having got hold of some story about a vast store of gold which had been hidden away there by Portuguese two or three centuries before.  Their trouble was, however, that the Makalanga, who lived in the fortress, which was called Bambatse, would not allow them to dig, because they said the place was haunted, and if they did so it would bring bad luck to their tribe.”

“And did they ever get in?” asked Benita.

“I am sure I don’t know, for we went next day, though before we left we called on the Makalanga, who admitted us all readily enough so long as we brought no spades with us.  By the way, the gold we saw your father and his friend examining was found in some ancient graves outside the walls, but had nothing to do with the big and mythical treasure.”