a council
of his Kaffir servants. "What was to be done?" he asked.

One said this thing, one that, but all agreed that they must wait to act
until the snow melted.

"Or till we freeze, you whose mothers were fools!" said the White
Man, who was in the worst of tempers, for had he not lost four hundred
pounds' worth of oxen?

Then a Zulu spoke, who hitherto had remained silent. He was the driver
of the first wagon.

"My father," he said to the White Man, "this is my word. The oxen are
lost in the snow. No man knows whither they have gone, or whether they
live or are now but hides and bones. Yet at the kraal yonder," and he
pointed to some huts about two miles away on the hillside, "lives a
witch doctor named Zweete. He is old--very old--but he has wisdom, and
he can tell you where the oxen are if any man may, my father."

"Stuff!" answered the White Man. "Still, as the kraal cannot be colder
than this wagon, we will go and ask Zweete. Bring a bottle of squareface
and some snuff with you for presents."

An hour later he stood in the hut of Zweete. Before him was a very
ancient man, a mere bag of bones, with sightless eyes, and one hand--his
left--white and shrivelled.

"What do you seek of Zweete, my white father?" asked the old man in a
thin voice. "You do not believe in me and my wisdom; why should I help
you? Yet I will do it, though it is against your law, and you do wrong
to ask me,--yes, to show you that there is truth in us Zulu doctors, I
will help you. My father, I know what you seek. You seek to know where
your oxen have run for shelter from the cold! Is it not so?"

"It is so, Doctor," answered the White Man. "You have long ears."

"Yes, my white father, I have long ears, though they say that I grow
deaf. I have keen eyes also, and yet I cannot see your face. Let me
hearken! Let me look!"

For awhile he was silent, rocking himself to and fro, then he spoke:
"You have a farm, White Man, down near Pine Town, is it not? Ah! I
thought so--and an hour's ride from your farm lives a Boer with four
fingers only on his right hand. There is a kloof on the Boer's farm
where mimosa-trees grow. There, in the kloof, you shall find your
oxen--yes, five days' journey from here you will find them all. I say
all, my father, except three only--the big black Africander ox, the
little red Zulu ox with one horn, and the speckled ox. You shall not
find these, for they have died in the snow. Send, and you will find
the oth