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THE COMING OF NADA.
One night--it was a night of full moon--I sat alone with Umslopogaas in my hut, and we spoke of the matter of our plots; then, when we had finished that talk, we spoke of Nada the Lily.
"Alas! my uncle," said Umslopogaas sadly, "we shall never look more on Nada; she is surely dead or in bonds, otherwise she had been here long ago.

I have sought far and wide, and can hear no tidings and find nothing." "All that is hidden is not lost," I answered, yet I myself believed that there was an end of Nada.
Then we were silent awhile, and presently, in the silence, a dog barked.
We rose, and crept out of the hut to see what it might be that stirred, for the night drew on, and it was needful to be wary, since a dog might bark at the stirring of a leaf, or perhaps it might be the distant footfall of an impi that it heard.
We had not far to look, for standing gazing at the huts, like one who is afraid to call, was a tall slim man, holding an assegai in one hand and a little shield in the other.

We could not see the face of the man, because the light was behind him, and a ragged blanket hung about his shoulders.

Also, he was footsore, for he rested on one leg.