wababana's kraal, but Nomalie was not there. Old
Kwababana was healthy in body for so old a man, but he was very
childish, and just then the loss of his cow had quite upset him. He
could tell me nothing about Nomalie, and when I told him that Xolilizwe
was dead, he thought I meant the cow, and began to cry out. When I at
last was able to make him understand that it was Xolilizwe I had said
was dead, and not the cow, he appeared to be quite comforted, I then
went back to my own kraal, but Nomalie was not there, nor had she been
seen or heard of. So I ceased searching, thinking that she would be
sure to return, sooner or later.

"Three days after, a little boy told me that something strange was
lying in the pool just above the Ghoda drift. I went down at once to
see what it was. The pool is quite shallow, it would hardly drown a man
if he were to sit down in it. There I found my daughter's body, with
the stone which I had seen lying near Xolilizwe's headless trunk tied
to the neck by the string of twisted bark. It was a pity. She would
have been the mother of men.

"I dug a hole where she had left the pick stuck in the ground, for I
now understood she had meant the placing of the pick thus as a sign
that she wished me to bury her next to Xolilizwe. Tomorrow, when you
are going home, get off your horse and walk into the Ghoda bush at its
lower extremity. You will see a large 'umgwenya' (kafir plum) tree just
inside on your left, and underneath it two piles of stones. These are
the graves. But my story is not yet finished.

"Lukwazi never saw another Shwama. The corn-yield that year was very
plentiful, and in the early part of the winter beer flowed like water
at every kraal. Lukwazi rode about with his followers from beer-drink
to beer-drink, and he was drunk most of his days. On the evening of the
fourth new moon after the feast of the first-fruits, Lukwazi and his
men rode past here at full gallop. It was not yet dark. The sun had
gone down and the moon was just disappearing. The party had been
drinking beer for two days at the huts of Vudubele, the last kraal that
you passed on your way here this afternoon, and all were mad drunk.
They galloped down the valley, Lukwazi leading on a stout little grey
stallion. He was beating his horse and yelling, and one blow made the
horse swerve out of the path. There was an old ant-bear hole hidden in
the grass, into which the horse trod, and falling, rolled over on its
rider. L