It was a noble stream, clear as crystal, and very unlike the muddy tropical Labongo at Umvelos'.

Suddenly, about a quarter of a mile from the lake, the land seemed to grow over it, and with a swirl and a hollow roar, it disappeared into a mighty pot-hole.

I walked a few steps on, and from below my feet came the most uncanny rumbling and groaning.

Then I knew what old Coetzee's devil was that howled in the Rooirand.
Had I continued my walk to the edge of the cliff, I might have learned a secret which would have stood me in good stead later.

But the descent began to make me anxious, and I retraced my steps to the top of the chimney whence I had come.