Next morning we walked up to visit ’Mtoko in his kraal. The twenty huts which compose it are girt around with a strong palisade. Each hut is large, and has a porch. ’Mtoko and his head men were seated on a rock in the midst of it with a wood fire for lighting their pipes. One of the indunas had just decorated his hair in splendid fashion, tying up his black tufts with beads, and covering the whole with a thick coating of grease, which soaked into his matted hair before our eyes under the strong influence of the sun. Into this circle we were all invited, for the dread of the white lady seemed to have passed away. She presented the monarch with some English needles, and his delight in receiving these treasures exceeded even that which he showed on receipt of the Chartered Company’s gifts, for in ’Mtokoland they are accustomed to use strong sharp blades of grass for needles, on which ours were a distinct improvement. Our object to-day was to inquire into the politics of the country, and to verify the strange stories we had heard about the priest of the lion god, the Mondoro, who is reported to be even stronger than the chief. We wanted to learn more concerning the cult of the lion, and where the Zimbabwe of ’Mtokoland was, where the annual sacrifices take place to the king of beasts. The question was a delicate one, and had to be tenderly approached, knowing as we did by this time the extreme reluctance of the Kaffirs to disclose to white men the secrets of their religion. A man called Benoula seemed to take the lead in everything. The ’Mtoko hardly spoke, and looked very uncomfortable whilst the catechising was going on. The results of our investigations were vague. The Mondoro, or lion priest, was uncle to the chief, and he resided at Lutzi, the village by which we had passed. The old ’Mtoko on his death-mat had left his son and heir somehow or another in tutelage to this mysterious priest-uncle of his. When asked where the Zimbabwe was, he replied reluctantly: ‘The Mondoro may tell you if he likes; I dare not.’ Finally, after ‘the Home of the Buffaloes’’ hair had been taken down by his majesty’s special request, we made arrangements for Benoula to accompany us to Lutzi on the morrow and introduce us to the priest, whom we had been so near without knowing it when we first entered the country. We took a look round the kraal before taking our leave. The cattle are all housed in the centre of it. There was the pigeon-cote, a feature in all the villages about here, consisting of a mud box with holes, raised on poles. Hard by dwelt a hideous black sow with a litter of young ones in a grass sty. There was a hut for the calves and a hut for the goats, a scene of bucolic prosperity which we had come across nowhere else in Mashonaland.