Here the bush changed to trees of some size, and after leaving the ridge the road plunged for a little into a thick shade.

I had forgotten for a moment the folk in the bush, and when a man stepped out of the thicket I pulled up my horse with a start.
It was a tall native, who carried himself proudly, and after a glance at me, stalked along at my side.

He wore curious clothes, for he had a kind of linen tunic, and around his waist hung a kilt of leopard-skin.
In such a man one would have looked for a ting-kop,[1] but instead he had a mass of hair, not like a Kaffir's wool, but long and curled like some popular musician's.

I should have been prepared for the face, but the sight of it sent a sudden chill of fright through my veins.

For there was the curved nose, the deep flashing eyes, and the cruel lips of my enemy of the Kirkcaple shore.
Colin was deeply suspicious and followed his heels growling, but he never turned his head.
'The day is warm, father,' I said in Kaffir.