The sun will soon be coming up behind the blue Beroma Range, just over the romantically shaped rocks at Chenga’s kraal. The peaks of the range are already edged with the fire of the coming light. At last a notched portion of the sun appears over the distant mountain heights. Now everything is coloured crimson. The granite cliffs and massive boulders, the tall grass, the ruined walls, even the mules outspanned in the valley in front of the camp, are all crimson. The usually dirty-coloured grass roofs of the huts are for some minutes most gorgeously beautified. For the only time in the day the dentelle pattern on the conical tower and on the eastern face of the Eastern Temple, the chevron pattern on the Elliptical Temple, and the huge herring-bone pattern on the ancient water gate, and certain of the slate and granite monoliths, are fully bathed in rich sunshine. Other ancient decorative patterns on the walls will have the full sun shining upon them only at midday, while others will only be fully sun-bathed as the sun is setting. But at present everything is crimson. The wreaths of mist which lie over the tall grass filling the valleys, and which just before were blue, now connect kopje and kopje, making the Acropolis and other summits crimson isles rising from out a crimson sea. The only objects that decline to take on the prevailing tint are some old-world-looking trees with green, metallic leaves. Were the picture of Zimbabwe with this misty colouring resting over it reproduced on canvas the artist would at once be condemned as extravagant. But Nature has more than one colour on her palette. The crimson melts in a rich golden hue which succeeds it. The cliffs, grass hut-roofs, and mist-wreaths become golden. The mules are transformed to gold, and the battered old wagon looks for once quite respectable with its golden buck-sail. But the gold in its turn also fades, the mist-veils lift and melt away, and the land once more regains its wonted tawny, sun-bathed appearance so suggestive of lions. Day has not yet had a fair chance to become commonplace, but in Havilah Camp life is beginning to stir. Three naked boys have gone to the spring for water, others collect wood, clean the pots, and draw _rapoka_ meal and salt from the stores, while a tall pillar of bright blue smoke ascends in the still air from the boys’ fire. From our height can be seen a score of native villages, each with its column of blue smoke.