passed from us. Jess sat in it waiting for her love after we
were gone. There she nursed him back to life. But Jess is
dead, and strangers own it, or perhaps it is a ruin.

For us too, Macumazahn, as for the land we loved, the
mystery and promise of the morning are outworn; the mid-day
sun burns overhead, and at times the way is weary. Few of
those we knew are left. Some are victims to battle and
murder, their bones strew the veldt; death has taken some in
a more gentle fashion; others are hidden from us, we know
not where. We might well fear to return to that land lest we
also should see ghosts. But though we walk apart to-day, the
past yet looks upon us with its unalterable eyes. Still we
can remember many a boyish enterprise and adventure, lightly
undertaken, which now would strike us as hazardous indeed.
Still we can recall the long familiar line of the Pretoria
Horse, the face of war and panic, the weariness of midnight
patrols; aye, and hear the roar of guns echoed from the
Shameful Hill.

To you then, Macumazahn, in perpetual memory of those
eventful years of youth which we passed together in the
African towns and on the African veldt, I dedicate these
pages, subscribing myself now as always,

Your sincere friend,

Indanda.

To Arthur H. D. Cochrane, Esq.