Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

RED SUNSETS 291
surely the deduction is inexorable that the whole town
was wiped out of existence. I seem to see that old friend
of mine now while I write. A brave chief, he added to
his prowess in war the exceptional merit of being a
laborious hunter. Big-game hunter all his life, hundreds
of animals had fallen to his old flint-lock ; but in
his youth he had been soured by a dastardly act of
mutilation, an enemy having cropped his ears. When
we met, he was a dreaded " Black Flag " in revolt who
had taken to the Likurwe Hills, pouncing down on passing
caravans, and demanding all their powder, lest it should
pass on into his enemy's country and be used ultimately
against him. One such caravan so tied up was our own
Mission's, a band of Biheans probably two hundred strong.
Resident as I was in his enemy's country, it was a
precarious business to cross the lines and enter his
stronghold ; the Black Flag, remember, does not know
the Red Cross. That visit, however, was a success ; and
having struck a bargain which acknowledged his right
to the plundering us of all powder, we bade the last
farewell. As we were parting for ever, he slyly un-
coiled his turban, revealing the Royal cropped ears,
much as Caesar might have done with the wreath he
wore to hide his baldness. "Look," said he, '*I am
fighting for my lost ears." Poor Rob Roy, he had only
a few years of life, and then came his Turneresque
sunset, when he dragged the whole town with him down
to the grave. The story is a cave-tale, and would literally
be entitled " The Last of the Troglodytes." The trap in