Sir George sent his own carriage horses to India, there to be yoked to smoking guns, and went afoot in Cape Town. The maintenance of peace, among the pugnacious chiefs of South Africa, depended mainly upon his personal influence with them. He borrowed horses and rode round among those chiefs, binding them over, in their only recognisances, as honourable men, not to disturb the country. It was a strange Pax Britannica; an affair of novel, almost quixotic, elements. But it went through royally. 'You know,' one fancies Sir George delivering himself during his circuit of the kraals, 'the Queen, for whom I speak, has to quell a rising which threatens all that is good in one of her other possessions. Those who fight against her are of exceeding number, while her forces there are comparatively few. Now, you are all warriors of experience who, if there must be fighting, would like to see a fair contest. In England the Queen has many soldiers, but England is as far again from India as we are. Thus, I can send troops from here in less time, and I am doing so, relying upon you, as gentlemen, to see that the peace is kept while they are away. With you, therefore, I leave that trust, mindful that we are all subjects of a Queen who loves those who serve her loyally, but who, when justly angered, can strike heavily.' The velvet glove, fastening with the steel button, was gladly taken up by the chiefs, nor did they betray the Governor's confidence. His invasion of Moshesh, in this relation, was quite an exploit, for the old fellow was stern and wily. Sir George had brought about the cease fire, in a quarrel between the Basutos and the Boers. That gave him the prestige which was requisite for anyone who would go to Thaba Bosigo. Having a Boer for guide, and a few natives for retinue, the Governor presented himself at the outer postern of the stronghold, after darkness had fallen. 'I was admitted,' he said, 'and found Moshesh ill in bed, a bright nightcap, with a tassel, on his head. A more strange, more picturesque conference, bearing upon the well-being of the British Empire, surely never took place. Moshesh was propped up in his bed, his leading men grouped themselves round, and we talked. A fire burned in the place, a tallow candle or two spluttered, making lights and shadows as in a Rembrandt picture. My natives understood Basuto and English, and were the medium for my converse with Moshesh. He was really one of the cleverest fellows in all South Africa, as well as one of the most powerful chiefs. Thus, I was pleased with myself when I left Thaba Bosigo, no longer a Mountain of Midnight, knowing that he was in my league of peace.'