equently
utterly defenceless, the whole party stood among the ruins of Sofala,
surrounded by the warriors of the Arab tribe, while Wyzinski, as if
nothing more than ordinary had happened, seated himself on a ruined
slab, more accurately to examine the bar of gold.

The old chief Achmet advanced, and using the Arab tongue, addressed the
soldier, who felt none of the stern coolness of the missionary.

"I thought the white men were not merchants, and refused gold," the old
man remarked. "They are then thieves who rob, and not fair traders who
barter."

"We found the gold by chance, chief."

The Arab laughed. "The white men came down the river by chance, to the
very spot where we find from time to time the gold buried; by chance
they dig for it and find it. Let them not laugh at an old man, whose
grey hairs will not bear it. Mashallah, let them give back the gold, or
my children take it."

"You are welcome, chief," replied the soldier, taking the bar from
Wyzinski, who seemed sunk in reverie, and giving it to Achmet. "And now
withdraw your warriors, and let us finish what we are about."

"Are the white men murderers as well as gold seekers?" asked Achmet Ben
Arif, pointing to the dead body which lay dark and motionless in the
moonlight.

"Look for yourself, chief. The wounds will tell their own tale,"
answered the other.

The old man bent over the corpse, putting his hand on the torn face, and
feeling the broken ribs. His fingers followed the wounds for several
minutes, then rising, "It is a lion which has done this," he said.

"It is, chief," and Hughes told how the death had occurred.

Achmet turned to his warriors, spoke a few words with them, when they
retired, vanishing among the trees as silently as they had appeared, the
old chief alone remaining.

"And you say," asked Wyzinski, "that you often find worked and smelted
gold here?"

"Yes," replied the chief, "often."

"It is Portuguese, and wherever they have drawn it from is the country
we seek, the ancient Ophir of Solomon. There can be no doubt of that."

"Let the white men bury their dead," answered Achmet; "and let them seek
Machin, chief of Manica, and the Makoapa."

And so poor Noti was lowered into his grave, and the missionary breathed
the white man's prayer over the Kaffir resting-place, among the
crumbling ruins of Sofala. Heavy stones were rolled over the spot to
baulk the jackals of their prey, and the old chief stood calmly by,