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 thing out of him; after a while, however, he told me that on a previous visit, as he and his servants were returning single file from an elephant-hunt, a gun had accidentally gone off and killed one of Menon’s people, and he now feared that he might be recognized and accused of the deed. Understanding that we were here encamping close to Menon’s residence, his alarm became more intense than ever, and he kept most cautiously in the rear of the waggons, not suffering his face to be seen until the chief’s visit was over.

Menon was a gaunt-looking man of about fitty years of age, and an arrant hypocrite. All his attendants had countenances as ignoble as his own. It is in order that the tribe may be distinguished from their brethren north of the Zambesi that I have designated them as Menon’s Makalakas. Together with their southern compatriots they were subjugated by the Matabele Zulus in 1837. Up to that time they had been peaceful agriculturists and cattle-breeders; but now they do very little in the way of rural pursuits, and have become the most notorious thieves and the greatest rascals in South Africa, a change entirely to be attributed to the demoralizing and vicious influence of their oppressors.

The six attendants of the chief squatted round our fire, and Menon, wrapped in a mangy mantle of wild cats’ skins, remained standing. He scanned every one so carefully, that it was quite apparent he was looking for some one in particular, and an expression of dissatisfaction rested on his face as he closed his scrutiny. He spoke of the death of his servant, saying that he had heard all about the affair from a man who had been in company with the victim, Rh