Hans advanced unwillingly enough and squatted down at the spot that Zikali indicated with his bony finger, being very careful that none of the magic bones should touch any portion of his anatomy, for fear lest they should bewitch him, I suppose. There he sat, holding his ragged felt hat upon the pit of his stomach as though to ward off the gimlet-like glances of Zikali’s burning eyes. “Ho-ho! Yellow Man,” said the dwarf after a few seconds of inspection, which caused Hans to wriggle uncomfortably and even to colour beneath his wrinkled skin, like a young woman being studied by her prospective husband, who desires to ascertain whether she will or will not do for a fifth wife. “Ho-ho! it seems to me that you knew this cave before you went there in the storm, but of course I should guess that, for how otherwise would you have found it in such a hurry; also that it had something to do with Bushmen, as most caves have in this land. “The question is, what was in it? No, don’t tell me. I want to find out for myself. It is strange that the thought comes to me of pictures. No, it isn’t strange, since the Bushmen often used to paint pictures in caves. Now, you shouldn’t nod your head, Yellow Man, because it makes the riddle too easy. Just stare at me and think of nothing at all. Pictures, lots of them, but one principal picture, I think; something that was difficult to come at. Yes, dangerous, even. Was it perchance a picture of yourself that a Bushman drew long ago when you were young and handsome, Yellow Man? “There, again you are shaking your head. Keep it quite still, will you, so that the thoughts in it don’t ripple like water beneath a wind. At least it was a picture of something hideous, but much bigger than you. Ah! it grows and grows. I am getting it now. Macumazahn, come and stand by me, and you, Yellow Man, turn your back so that you face the fire. Bah! it burns badly, does it not, and the air is so cold, so cold! I must make it brighter. “Are you there, Macumazahn? Yes. Now look at this stuff of mine; see what a fine blaze it causes,” and putting his hand into the bag, he drew out some kind of powder, only a little of it, which he threw on to the embers. Then he stretched his skinny fingers over them as though for warmth, and slowly lifted his arms high into the air. It is a fact that after him the flames sprang up to a height of three or four feet. He dropped his arms again and the flames sank down. He lifted them once more and once more they rose, only this time much higher. A third time he repeated this performance, and now the sheet of fire sprang full fifteen feet into the air and so remained burning steadily, like the flame of a lamp. “Look at that fire, Macumazahn, and you also, Yellow Man,” he said, in a strange new voice, a sort of dreamy far-off voice, “and tell me if you see anything in it, for I can’t—I can’t.”