I was walking in front of the wagon, keeping a lookout for bad places and stones in what in those days was by courtesy called the road, though in fact it was nothing but a track twisting between the mountains, and just behind, in his usual place—for he always stuck to me like a shadow—was Hans. Presently I heard him cough in a hollow fashion, as was his custom when he wanted to call my attention to anything, and asked over my shoulder, “What is it, Hans?” “Nothing Baas,” he answered, “only that there is a big storm coming up. Two storms, Baas, not one, and when they meet they will begin to fight and there will be plenty of spears flying about in the sky, and then both those clouds will weep rain or perhaps hail.” “Yes,” I said, “there is, but as I don’t see anywhere to shelter, there is nothing to be done.” Hans came level with me and coughed again, twirling his dirty apology for a hat in his skinny fingers, thereby intimating that he had a suggestion to make. “Many years ago, Baas,” he said, pointing with his chin towards a mass of tumbled stones at the foot of a mountain slope about a mile to our left, “there used to be a big cave yonder, for once when I was a boy I sheltered in it with some Bushmen. It was after the Zulus had cleaned out Natal and there was nothing to eat in the land, so that the people who were left fed upon one another.” “Then how did the Bushmen live, Hans?” “On slugs and grasshoppers, for the most part, Baas, and buck when they were lucky enough to kill any with their poisoned arrows. Fried caterpillars are not bad, Baas, nor are locusts when you can get nothing else. I remember that I, who was starving, grew fat on them.” “You mean that we had better make for this cave of yours, Hans, if you are sure it’s there?” “Yes, Baas, caves can’t run away, and though it is many years ago, I don’t forget a place where I have lived for two months.” I looked at those advancing clouds and reflected. They were uncommonly black and evidently there was going to be the devil of a storm. Moreover, the situation was not pleasant for we were crossing a patch of ironstone on which, as I knew from experience, lightning always strikes, and a wagon and a team of oxen have an attraction for electric flashes. While I was reflecting a party of Kaffirs came up from behind, running for all they were worth, no doubt to seek shelter. They were dressed in their finery—evidently people going to or returning from a wedding-feast, young men and girls, most of them—and as they went by one of them shouted to me, whom evidently he knew, as did most of the natives in those parts, “Hurry, hurry, Macumazahn!” as you know the Zulus called me. “Hurry, this place is beloved of lightnings,” and he pointed with his dancing stick first to the advancing tempest and then to the ground where the ironstone cropped up.