spot in the Matoppos, since made famous and sacred.

Where John Cecil Rhodes sleeps on that high plateau of convex hollow
stone, with the great natural pillars standing round like sentinels,
and all the rugged unfinished hills tumbling away to an unpeopled
silence, he came that time to rest his sorrowing soul. The woods, the
wild animal life, had been left behind, and only a peaceful middle
world between God and man greeted his stern eyes.

Now, here in London, at that corner where the lonely white statue
stands by Londonderry House, as he moved in a dream of pain, with vast
weights like giant manacles hampering every footstep, inwardly raging
that into his sweet garden of home the vile elements of slander had
been thrown, yet with a terrible and vague fear that something had gone
terribly wrong with him, that far-off day spent at the Matoppos flashed
upon his sight.

Through streets upon streets he had walked, far, far out of his way,
subconsciously giving himself time to recover before he reached his
home; until the green quiet of Hyde Park, the soft depths of its empty
spaces, the companionable and commendable trees, greeted his senses.
Then, here, suddenly there swam before his eyes the bright sky over
those scarred and jagged hills beyond the Matoppos, purple and grey,
and red and amethyst and gold, and his soul's sight went out over the
interminable distance of loneliness and desolation which only ended
where the world began again, the world of fighting men. He saw once
more that tumbled waste of primeval creation, like a crazed sea
agitated by some Horror underneath, and suddenly transfixed in its
plunging turmoil--a frozen concrete sorrow, with all active pain gone.
He heard the loud echo of his feet upon that hollow plateau of rock,
with convex skin of stone laid upon convex skin, and then suddenly the
solid rock which gave no echo under his tread, where Rhodes lies
buried. He saw all at once, in the shining horizon at different points,
black, angry, marauding storms arise and roar and burst: while all the
time above his head there was nothing but sweet sunshine, into which
the mists of the distant storms drifted, and rainbows formed above him.
Upon those hollow rocks the bellow of the storms was like the rumbling
of the wheels of a million gun-carriages; and yet high overhead there
were only the bright sun and faint drops of rain falling like mystic
pearls.

And then followed--he could hear it again, so p