Looking back at the Acropolis Hill, and at its long line of precipice, one sees the ancient walls on the summit gleaming white in the moonlight, while the tall monoliths stand clear against the sky. In the passages on the hill one might almost expect on such a night to come face to face with Rider Haggard’s She at any corner, or to see her draped form issuing from one of the numerous caves which still pierce the cliffs. But we must turn our backs on the Acropolis Hill, and make for the Elliptical Temple, passing the little graveyard where the remains of Major Alan Wilson and his Shangani heroes rest in their granite tomb in the grove of euphorbia trees, whose branches cast black, sharp-cut shadows on the ground. Then across an open granite space, and up the long parallel passage on the east side of Ridge Ruins, out through its intricate southern entrance, and on to the level ground which runs up to the foot of the temple walls. The clumps of tall, old-world-looking aloes and euphorbia trees lining the walls of No. 1 Ruins on the left of our path appear strange even by daylight, but in the midnight radiance of the full moon they assume intensely weird and fantastic forms thoroughly in harmony with the outlines of the ancient buildings. The lonely grave of Thomas Bailey, an Australian gold prospector, lies close to the right-hand side of the path. He died in 1893 while searching for relics within the temple. The temple walls covered with white lichen appear to have been whitewashed for centuries, and these gleam brightly with light in distinct contrast to the dark veld and bush from which they rise; and so white are they that at a fair distance one can see every course, block, and joint in their dry masonry. The broad bases of the walls in comparison with the widths of their summits—though a full-sized wagon and a team of sixteen oxen could stand upon the top of the more substantial portion of the walls—their sloping sides, and the utter absence of any feature of any style of architecture known in Western Europe, lend a strikingly Eastern appearance to the building, which is sufficient in itself to forcibly take one’s mind back some two or three thousand years. Meanwhile the noise of village drums, the blowing of horns, and the deep wild choruses of crowds of men, mingled with the voices of women and girls, were waxing louder and more incessant as midnight approached. Standing in No. 5 Enclosure, just within the west entrance, the interior of the temple is seen to be full of light and shadow. But all is serenely calm and still as if possessed by the silence of the grave. The high, massive walls encircling the temple deaden to faintness the voices of the villagers. The close air, heavy with the scent of verbena wafted in from the veld, is oppressive in the extreme. An inexplicable sensation of trespassing in forbidden precincts possesses one. The native looks scared. Midnight visits to ruins are not his particular fancy.