Still, a bird was a bird, and game, and the thought of game at such a time was glorious; but my spirits sank again, for I had no weapon, and then the grapes seemed to be sour.
"It isn't a bird; only a feather or two dropped by some old cock ostrich," I said aloud.
No.

The feathers began to rise from the edge of the ridge, and there was a black face beneath them, then the broad breast, and finally the full figure of a stalwart Kaffir warrior, his thin arms and ankles ornamented with wool, his savage panoply of shield and assagai in his left hand, and his eyes shaded by his right hand, which cut straight across his forehead just below the fillet holding the three white ostrich feathers.

He was evidently watching me..