The Acropolis itself is still. The long and labyrinthine passages give back no echoes. The temple courts are empty. The tall monoliths, like ghostly sentinels, point upwards to the sky, and the sunlight is fast fading on the ancient dentelle pattern at the Western Temple. These massive ruins, once teeming with a dense and busy population of Semitic colonists of prehistoric times, with their innumerable evidences of Phallic worship and extensive gold-smelting operations, are as quiet as the grave. The cry of a baboon, or scream of an eagle returning to its eyrie high up on the cliffs above the Eastern Temple, alone break the impressive silence enfolding one of the greatest archæological wonders of the Southern Hemisphere. At this height and on a hill so isolated from its neighbours, and just at sunset when shadows are already gathering in the deep defiles in the cliffs upon its summit, an inexpressible sensation of intense loneliness and solitude asserts itself. No other human foot will tread these ancient approaches to the Acropolis till the sun has risen once again. There is no white man round about for miles, and the natives will not venture near the ruins after sunset. Two hours ago the herd was mindful to drive the goats from the high points on the face of the hill down into the valley. The natives will solemnly inform the stranger that as night approaches the spirits of their departed ancestors buried in the caves of the hill awaken, that the ruins are then bewitched. It may be easily understood that in minds made craven with centuries of slavery to a succession of invaders, and haunted, till the last decade, with constant dread of Swazi and Matabele raids, the standard of Makalanga valour is low indeed, and that at nights they shun these scenes of ancient life is not in the least surprising.