reached the house. At the door--or rather, opposite to it, for there
was a verandah in front--they halted and got off their horses. As they
dismounted there came a shout of welcome from the house, and presently
in the doorway, showing out clearly against the light, appeared a
striking and, in its way, a most pleasant figure. He--for it was a
man--was very tall, or, rather, he had been very tall. Now he was much
bent with age and rheumatism. His long white hair hung low upon his
neck, and fell back from a prominent brow. The top of the head was
quite bald, like the tonsure of a priest, and shone and glistened in the
lamplight, and round this oasis the thin white locks fell down. The
face was shrivelled like the surface of a well-kept apple, and, like
an apple, rosy red. The features were aquiline and strongly marked; the
eyebrows still black and very bushy, and beneath them shone a pair
of grey eyes, keen and bright as those of a hawk. But for all its
sharpness, there was nothing unpleasant or fierce about the face; on
the contrary, it was pervaded by a remarkable air of good-nature and
pleasant shrewdness. For the rest, the man was dressed in rough tweed
clothes, tall riding-boots, and held a broad-brimmed Boer hunting hat in
his hand. Such, as John Niel first saw him, was the outer person of old
Silas Croft, one of the most remarkable men in the Transvaal.

"Is that you, Captain Niel?" roared out the stentorian voice. "The
natives said you were coming. A welcome to you! I am glad to see
you--very glad. Why, what is the matter with you?" he went on as the
Zulu Mouti ran to help him off his horse.

"Matter, Mr. Croft?" answered John; "why, the matter is that your
favourite ostrich has nearly killed me and your niece here, and that I
have killed your favourite ostrich."