the gulls and Mother Carey's chickens," exclaimed Hughes, as
they stepped on shore, and hauled the canoe up bodily on the bank.

"Look yonder, under the palm and date-trees, are some Kaffir huts. Let
us see what they are," said Wyzinski.

Telling Masheesh to stop by the boat, which yet contained the body of
the dead Noti, the two took their way to the kraal. There were about
twenty huts, and the tribe seemed very poor. The first group they came
to was composed of women.

"There, Hughes," said the missionary, "that smacks of Egyptian customs,
anyway."

"What does?" inquired the other. "I see nothing but some women grinding
maize."

"Just so, but look at the mode of doing it. The old Egyptian
hieroglyphics exactly reproduce it."

This was indeed the case, but the chief of the tribe now advanced to
meet them. He was a tall long-limbed man of a deep brown tint, with
grey hair and regular features--not in any one respect resembling the
Kaffirs, except as to dress, or rather the want of it.

"Well, that is strange," remarked Hughes. "If I was in India, I should
say I saw an Arab. Speak to him, Wyzinski."

The missionary, using the Zulu dialect, asked his name.

"Achmet Ben Arif," replied the man. "It is the first time for many
years the trader has reached the ruins of Sofala."

"Ruins!" exclaimed Wyzinski, at once mounting his favourite hobby,
"where are they?"

The Arab, for such in effect he was, together with all his tribe, raised
his hand, pointing to a spot a few hundred yards distant, where mounds
and fragments of fallen masonry were visible.

The missionary was moving away before the chief had done speaking, eager
to reach the ruins.

"But how," asked Hughes, speaking his own tongue, which he had acquired
in India, "how comes an Arab tribe settled here?"

"We know not," replied the chief. "For ages have our fathers lived
here, near the ruins of the white man's fort."

"And yet you have preserved the Arab language, and the Arab blood."

"Pure and unchanged, our customs, language and tradition remain as they
were; the dress of our people alone is altered. And instead of the
bournous of our fathers, we wear skins like the Kaffir. It is our
destiny. We have gold if the white chiefs will trade."

"We are not traders, chief. But what are the ruins yonder? Who built
them?"

"The fathers of your own people; the white traders of _Tete_ and the
Zambesi."

These, then, were the ruins of the