[1] Mr. Quatermain's ideas about ancient Danes seem to be rather
confused; we have always understood that they were dark-haired people.
Probably he was thinking of Saxons.--Editor.

CHAPTER II

THE LEGEND OF SOLOMON'S MINES

"What was it that you heard about my brother's journey at Bamangwato?"
asked Sir Henry, as I paused to fill my pipe before replying to Captain
Good.

"I heard this," I answered, "and I have never mentioned it to a soul
till to-day. I heard that he was starting for Solomon's Mines."

"Solomon's Mines?" ejaculated both my hearers at once. "Where are they?"

"I don't know," I said; "I know where they are said to be. Once I saw
the peaks of the mountains that border them, but there were a hundred
and thirty miles of desert between me and them, and I am not aware that
any white man ever got across it save one. But perhaps the best thing I
can do is to tell you the legend of Solomon's Mines as I know it, you
passing your word not to reveal anything I tell you without my
permission. Do you agree to that? I have my reasons for asking."

Sir Henry nodded, and Captain Good replied, "Certainly, certainly."

"Well," I began, "as you may guess, generally speaking, elephant
hunters are a rough set of men, who do not trouble themselves with much
beyond the facts of life and the ways of Kafirs. But here and there you
meet a man who takes the trouble to collect traditions from the
natives, and tries to make out a little piece of the history of this
dark land. It was such a man as this who first told me the legend of
Solomon's Mines, now a matter of nearly thirty years ago. That was when
I was on my first elephant hunt in the Matalebe country. His name was
Evans, and he was killed the following year, poor fellow, by a wounded
buffalo, and lies buried near the Zambesi Falls. I was telling Evans
one night, I remember, of some wonderful workings I had found whilst
hunting koodoo and eland in what is now the Lydenburg district of the
Transvaal. I see they have come across these workings again lately in
prospecting for gold, but I knew of them years ago. There is a great
wide wagon road cut out of the solid rock, and leading to the mouth of
the working or gallery. Inside the mouth of this gallery are stacks of
gold quartz piled up ready for roasting, which shows that the workers,
whoever they were, must have left in a hurry. Also, about twenty paces
in, the gallery is built across, and a beautiful bit of mason