Sandilli replied in a curious mingling of Dutch, English, and Kaffir, of which Noziah acted as interpreter, that it was not he who had begun the war: years and years ago his father had to defend his kraal against General Maitland on the Sunday River, many long marches from where we then sat; that from that day to this several wars had occurred between his tribe and the English; but they were always brought on in the defence of their homes. In this manner they had been successively driven from one place to another, until there was nothing left for them but the hills. They were not hillmen, but wanted the pasture-lands in the plains from whence they had been driven, and which were now given to English farmers and cowardly Fingoes. He, for his part, was willing to make peace, because they could not fight against my men, who attacked them by night when they slept. During the day they were not afraid, as they had proved to Sir Harry Smith. He had been told that the Basutos had been beaten by General Cathcart: it was a good thing, because they were fools not to have come to his (Sandilli’s) help when he had nearly driven the English into the sea, where they came from. He added that, if Macomo was willing, they would go together and meet General Cathcart, and explain these matters to him, trusting that something like an equable arrangement might be made for those of his tribe who remained. I promised to send on this proposal of his to General Cathcart; and it was, moreover, arranged that Noziah should remain in my camp to convey the General’s reply to Sandilli when received. Noziah also made her brother swear, over some piece of stick she held before him, that she should not be sacrificed for remaining with the English (she had often told me that that disagreeable fate awaited her). To this, after many a mysterious sign and token, he agreed, to my immense relief, and the party broke up. I had felt, to say the least of it, exceedingly uneasy during the somewhat lengthy interview. Noziah afterwards told me that one of the party had actually proposed that I should be bound and tortured to death, as a propitiation to their witch-doctors, for the spirits of those who had perished by my night attacks. It was, perhaps, the firelock of Dix, pointed towards Sandilli’s head, that prevented the carrying out of this Kaffir-like attention. On returning to camp I found a small party of men who had been all night seeking us. They had caught a Kaffir, belonging probably to Sandilli’s party, seated near the spot where we had slept that night, and around which lay strewn remnants of a newspaper in which Dix had wrapped our late meal. They concluded from these shreds that we had been pitched over the cliff, and that these tokens of civilisation were all that remained of their captain, and, in revenge, they had hanged the poor devil on an adjoining tree.