ay from the town, bound for the banks of the Nonoti. He reached
Chantilly in safety, and passed on thence, after a short halt, to the
station at Santa Lucia Bay, there to organise a party destined to win
once more from the forest growth the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land.

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

THE MASSACRES OF CAWNPORE.

Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the
Lion's Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as
the ship stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering,
rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue
sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily
on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be
spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done
by the passenger is to leave the ship to pitch and roll at her anchors
until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse,
as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards
lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.

Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little
peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful.
Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views;
others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a
few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half
way, and where the click of the billiard balls never seems to cease
night or day.

Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pass on his left
hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds,
sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white
facade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly
hidden by the clustering creepers and vines.

Bright flowers and green plots of grass, carefully mowed and watered,
speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot
on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester,
who, being absent in England was glad to let it.

It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was shining
brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was
playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of
the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.

"Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?" asked Isabel,
who, seated on