Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Explorations and Hunting Experiences.Oh, they were happy times, these first days of the infant colony, when every man felt himself to be a real Robinson Crusoe,—with the trifling difference of being cast on heights of the mainland, instead of an islet of the sea, and with the pleasant addition of kindred company!So rich and lovely was their domain that some of the facetious spirits, in looking about for sites for future dwellings, affected a rollicking indifference to situations that would have been prized by any nobleman in making choice of a spot for a shooting-box.“Come now, McTavish,” said Considine, on one of their exploring expeditions, “you are too particular. Yonder is a spot that seems to have been made on purpose for you—a green meadow for the cattle and sheep, when you get ’em; stones scattered here and there, of a shape that will suit admirably for building purposes without quarrying or dressing; a clump of mimosa-trees to shelter your cottage from winds that may blow down the valley, and a gentle green slope to break those that blow up; a superb acacia standing by itself on a ready-made lawn where your front door will be, under which you may have a rustic seat and table to retire to at eventide with Mrs McTavish and lovely young Jessie, to smoke your pipe and sip your tea.”“Or toddy,” suggested Sandy Black.“Or toddy,” assented Considine.“Besides all this, you have the river making a graceful bend in front of your future drawing-room windows, and a vista of the valley away to the left, with a rocky eminence on the right, whence baboons can descend to rob your future orchard at night, and sit chuckling at you in safety during the day, with a grand background of wooded gorges,—or corries, as you Scotch have it, or kloofs, according to the boers—and a noble range of snow-clad mountains to complete the picture!”“Not a bad description for so young a man,” said McTavish, surveying the spot with a critical eye; “quite in our poetical leader’s style. You should go over it again in his hearing, and ask him to throw it into verse.”“No; I cannot afford to give away the valuable produce of my brain. I will keep and sell it some day in England. But our leader has already forestalled me, I fear. He read to me something last night which he has just composed, and which bears some resemblance to it. Listen:—“‘Now we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospect wild, grotesque, and strange;Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir ribs of granite bare and dry.And ridges, by the torrents worn,Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,Which fringes Nature’s savage dress,Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.But where the Vale winds deepbelow,The landscape hath a warmer glowThere the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drestAnd the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar-birds among its blooms,With the deep-green verdure blendingIn the stream of light descending.’“Something or other follows, I forget what, and then:—“‘With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er,Behind ascends the mountain hoar,Where the grin satyr-faced baboonSits gibbering to the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse or angry cryTh’intruder as he wanders by.’“There—I can’t remember the rest of it,” said Considine, “and I’m not even sure that what I’ve quoted is correct, but you see Mr Pringle’s mind has jumped before mine,—and higher.”“Man, it’s no’ that bad,” observed Black, with emphasis. “Depend on’t—though I mak’ nae pretence to the gift o’ prophecy—he’ll come oot as a bard yet—the bard o’ Glen Lynden maybe, or Sooth Afriky.—Hech, sirs!” added Sandy, pointing with a look of surprise to a tree, many of the pendent branches of which had peculiar round-shaped birds’-nests attached to them, “what’s goin’ on there, think ’ee?”The tree to which the Scot directed attention overhung the stream, and down one of its branches a snake was seen twining itself with caution. It evidently meant to rob one of the nests, for the little owner, with some of its companions, was shrieking and fluttering round the would-be robber. This kind of bird has been gifted with special wisdom to guard its home from snakes. It forms the entrance to its pendent nest at the bottom instead of the top, and hangs the nest itself at the extreme point of the finest twigs, so that the snake is compelled to wriggle downwards perpendicularly, and at last has to extend part of its body past the nest, in order to be able to turn its head upwards into the hole. Great, unquestionably, is a snake’s capacity to hold on by its tail, but this holding on as it were to next-to-nothing is usually too much for it. While the explorers were watching, the snake turned its head upwards for the final dive into the nest, but its coils slipped, and it fell into the water amid triumphant shrieks from the little birds. Nothing daunted, however, the snake swam ashore and made another attempt—with the same result. Again it made the trial; a third time it failed, and then, in evident disgust, went off to attack some easier prey.While Considine and his companions were thus out in search of good localities on which to plant future homesteads, the greater part of the settlers were engaged, at a spot which they had named Clifton, in erecting temporary huts of the wattle-and-dab order. Mr Pringle himself, with a bold fellow named Rennie, remained to guard the camp, as they had reason to fear a surprise from Bushmen marauders, known at that time to be roaming the neighbourhood. More than once the sentinels were tempted to fire into a band of baboons, whom they not unnaturally mistook for Bushmen!Other parties were sent out to cut wood and reeds, which they had to carry into camp, sometimes two or three miles, on their shoulders, while some were despatched into the kloofs to hunt, provisions having by that time grown scarce. Not being a sportsman himself, and not feeling sure of the power of his men, who were at that time unaccustomed to the gun, Mr Pringle wisely sent two of the party to the nearest station—about forty miles distant—to inquire about a supply of provisions and a few horses, which were expected from the Government-farm of Somerset.The first hunting party sent out was not a select one, the people generally being too eager about examining and determining their immediate locations to care about sport. It consisted of young Rivers and Jerry Goldboy. The former was appointed, or rather allowed, to go, more because of his sporting enthusiasm than because of any evidence he had yet given of his powers, and the latter merely because he desired to go. For the same reason he was permitted to arm himself with his blunderbuss. Rivers carried a heavy double-barrelled fowling-piece. He was a stout active impulsive young fellow, with the look of a capable Nimrod.“You’d have been better with a fowling-piece, or even a Dutch roer,” said Rivers, casting a doubtful look at the blunderbuss as they entered the jungle and began to ascend one of the nearest subsidiary glens or kloofs.“Well now, sir,” said Jerry respectfully, “I don’t agree with you. A man who goes a-shootin’ with a fowlin’-piece or a Dutch gun must ’ave some sort o’ capacity for shootin’—mustn’t ’e, sir?”“Well, I suppose he must.”“W’ereas,” continued Jerry, “a man who goes a-shootin’ with a blunderbuss don’t require no such qualification—that’s w’ere it is, sir.”“D’you mean to say that you can’t shoot?” asked Rivers, with a look of surprise.“No more, sir,” replied Jerry with emphasis, “than the weathercock of a Dutch Reformed Church. Of course I know ’ow to load—powder first, ball or shot arterwards; it’s usually gravel with me, that bein’, so to speak, ’andy and cheap. An’ I knows w’ich end o’ the piece to putt to my shoulder, likewise ’ow to pull the trigger, but of more than that I’m hinnocent as the babe unborn. Ah! you may laugh, sir, but after all I’m a pretty sure shot. Indeed I seldom miss, because I putt in such a ’eavy charge, and the ’buss scatters so fearfully that it’s all but impossible to miss—unless you fairly turn your back on the game and fires in the opposite direction.”“You’re a pleasant hunting companion!” said Rivers. “Do you know the importance of always keeping the muzzle of your gunawayfrom the unfortunate fellow you chance to be shooting with?”“Ho, yes, sir. The dangerous natur’ of my weapon is so great that I’ve adopted the plan of always walking, as you see, with what the milingtary call ‘shouldered arms,’ which endangers nothin’ but the sky—includin’ the planetory system—except w’en I ’appens to fall, w’en, of course, it’s every man lookout for hisself. But there’s one consolation for you, sir,—my blunderbuss don’t go off easy. It takes two pulls of the trigger, mostly, to bring fire out o’ the flint, and as I often forget to prime—there’s a third safeguard in that, so to speak.”Further converse was interrupted by the sudden bursting of a duiker, or large antelope, from a thicket close beside them. Both sportsmen levelled their pieces, but, the jungle there being dense, the animal vanished before either could fire. With the eager haste of tyros, however, they ran stumbling after it until they came to an open stretch of ground which led them to the edge of a small plain. Here they simultaneously discovered that no duiker was to be seen, though they observed a troop of quaggas far out of range, and a hartebeest in the distance. The former, observing them, kicked up their heels, and dashed away into the mountains. The latter, a handsome creature, the size of an average pony and fleet as a stag, bounded into the jungle.“No use going after these,” said Rivers, with a wistful gaze.“No, sir,—none w’atever.”“Better keep to the jungle and be ready next time,” said the young sportsman. “We mustn’t talk, Jerry.”“No, sir; mum’s the word. But ’ow if we should meet with a lion?”“Shoot it of course. But there is no such luck in store for us.”After this the hunters proceeded with greater caution. As they kept in the thick bush, they frequently startled animals, which they heard leaping up and bursting through the underwood, but seldom got a glimpse, and never a shot.“Tantalising, ain’t it, sir?”“Hush!”They issued on another open space at this point, and, seeing a thick bed of sedges near the margin of a stream, proceeded towards it, separating from each other a few yards in order to cover the ground.There was a sudden and violent shaking in the sedges on their approach, as if some large animal had been aroused from sleep, but the tall reeds prevented its being seen.“Look out, Jerry, and keep more on the other side—there—Hallo!”As he spoke, a creature called by the Dutch colonists a reit-vark, or reed-swine, whose quick starts and sharp stoppages betrayed its indecision, at length made up its mind and rushed out of the reeds in wild alarm close to Rivers, who, although ready, was incapable of restraining himself, and fired in haste. The ball nevertheless slightly grazed the animal’s side.With a shriek of intense agony, such as only a brute of the porcine tribe can utter, the reit-vark swerved aside and ran straight, though unintentionally, at Jerry Goldboy.Self-control not being Jerry’s forte, he uttered a great cry, presented the blunderbuss with both hands, shut his eyes, and fired. The butt of his piece came back on his chest and floored him, and the half-pound of gravel charge went into the forehead of the reit-vark, which dropped with a final groan, whose clear import was—“no earthly use in struggling afterthat!” Recovering himself, Jerry was jubilant over his success. Rivers was almost envious.They proceeded, but killed nothing more afterwards, though they saw much. Among other things, they saw a footprint in the sand which filled them with interest and awe.It was that of a lion! During the journey up from the coast they had seen much game, large and small, of every kind, except the Cape “tiger” and the lion. They had indeed, once or twice,heardthe peculiar growl orgurrof the former, but until this day none of the party had seen even the footprint of the king of beasts. Of course the interest and excitement was proportional. Of course, also, when the subject was discussed round the camp-fires that night, there was a good deal of “chaffing” among the younger men about the probability of a mistake as to the nature of the footprints by such unaccustomed sportsmen; but Rivers was so confident in his statements, and Jerry was so contemptuous in his manner of demanding whether there was any difference between the paw of a cat and a lion, except in size, and whether he was not perfectly familiar with a cat’s paw, that no room for scepticism remained.It had been a threatening day. Muttered thunder had been heard at intervals, and occasional showers,—the first that had assailed them since their arrival in the glen. The night became tempestuous, cold, and very dark, so that soon all were glad to seek the shelter of the tents or of the half-finished wattle-and-dab huts, except the sentinels. Of these, two were appointed for every watch. Masters and servants shared this disagreeable duty equally. Particularly disagreeable it was that night, for the rain came down in such torrents that it was difficult to keep the fires alight despite a good supply of firewood.About midnight the sleeping camp was aroused by the roar of a lion close to the tents. It was so loud and so tremendous that some of the sleepy-heads thought for a moment a thunderstorm had burst upon them. Every one was up in a second—the men with guns, pistols, swords, and knives. There was no mistaking theexpressionof the roar—the voice of fury as well as of power.“Whereaboots is the brute?” cried Sandy Black, who, roused to unwonted excitement by the royal voice, issued from his tent in a red nightcap and drawers, with a gun in one hand and a carving-knife in the other.“Here!” “There!” “In this direction!” “No, it isn’t!” “I say it is!” and similar exclamations, burst from every one. The uncertainty was probably occasioned partly by the mode the animal has of sometimes putting his mouth close to the ground when he roars, so that the voice rolls along like a billow; partly also by the echo from a mountain-rock which rose abruptly on the opposite bank of the river. Finding it impossible to decide the question of direction, the party fired volleys and threw firebrands in all directions, and this they did with such vigour that his kingship retired without uttering another sound.It was a grand, a royal, almost a humorous mode of breaking a spell—the spell of unbelief in lions,—which some of the party had been under up to that moment. They remained under it no longer!As if to confirm and fix the impression thus made, this lion,—or another,—gave some of the party a daylight interview. George Rennie, McTavish, Considine, Black, and others, had gone up the river to cut reeds in the bed of the stream. While they were busily engaged with their sickles, up rose a majestic lion in their very midst!“Preserve us a’!” exclaimed Black, who was nearest to him.Jerry Goldboy turned to seize his blunderbuss. The lion leaped upon the bank of the river, turned round and gazed upon the men.“Let go!” exclaimed Jerry in a hoarse whisper, endeavouring to shake off the vice-like grip that Black had laid on his arm.“Keep quiet, man,” growled Black sternly.The rest of the party were wise enough not to interfere with the lion. They were at that time inexperienced. To have wounded him would have brought disaster, perhaps death, on some of them. George Rennie (who afterwards became a celebrated lion-hunter) was emphatic in advising caution. After gazing in quiet surprise on the intruders for a minute or so, he turned and retired; first slowly, and then, after getting some distance off, at a good round trot.This was the first sight they had of the royal beast. Afterwards, during the winter and spring, they had frequent visits from lions, but did not suffer actual damage from them. They also, in course of time, dared to “beard the lion in his den,”—but of that more anon.The labour of the settlers at this time—before oxen and horses were procured—was very severe. Of course this had the effect of weeding the little company of some of its chaff in the shape of lazy and discontented men. One said that he “had not been engaged to work by day, and watch by night, as well as living in constant fear of being scalped by savages or devoured by wild beasts.” The observation being true and unanswerable, he was “graciously permitted to retire from the service,” and returned to Algoa Bay. But on the whole there was little murmuring, and no rebellion. By degrees difficulties were smoothed down. A squatter on one of the forfeited farms, about eight miles off, who with his family lived solely on flesh and milk, was engaged to lend a hand with his waggon and oxen to “flit” the families to their various locations. He also sold the settlers a few sheep. In time, more sheep and oxen were purchased from the Dutch farmers on the Tarka, a river on the other side of the mountains. Hottentots came from Somerset with flour. Thatched huts replaced the tents. A few horses were obtained. Gardens were cleared and enclosed. Trenches for irrigation were cut. Trees were rooted out, and ploughs were set to work. Ten armed Hottentots were sent by the magistrates of the district to which they belonged, to guard and relieve them of night-watches, and with these came the news that ten of their friend Opperman’s cattle, and seven belonging to their neighbour the squatter, had been carried off by Bushmen.At this point Sandy Black aroused the admiration of the ten Hottentots by setting to work one morning in September—the beginning of spring in South Africa—with a Scotch plough, which was guided entirely by himself and drawn by only two oxen. His dark-skinned admirers had never seen any other plough than the enormous unwieldy implement then in use among the Dutch, which had only one handle, no coulter, was usually drawn by ten or twelve oxen, and managed by three or four men and boys.By degrees those of the party who were good linguists began to pick up Dutch. Mr Pringle, especially, soon became familiar enough with it to be able to hold a Dutch service on Sundays, in addition to the English, for the benefit of the Hottentot guards. He also added a slight knowledge of medicine to his other qualifications, and was thus enabled to minister to the wants of body and soul, at a time when the people had no regular physician or professional minister of the Gospel.The arrival of horses gave the settlers opportunities of making more extended and more thorough explorations of their own domain, and the daily routine of life was varied and enlivened by an occasional visit from the Tarka boers, whom they found good-natured and hospitable—also very shrewd at a bargain!Thus they took root and began to grow.But before many of these things occurred Hans Marais came over the mountains, according to promise, and “Professor” Considine was fain to bid the Scotch settlers farewell, promising, however, to return and visit them on some future day.

Oh, they were happy times, these first days of the infant colony, when every man felt himself to be a real Robinson Crusoe,—with the trifling difference of being cast on heights of the mainland, instead of an islet of the sea, and with the pleasant addition of kindred company!

So rich and lovely was their domain that some of the facetious spirits, in looking about for sites for future dwellings, affected a rollicking indifference to situations that would have been prized by any nobleman in making choice of a spot for a shooting-box.

“Come now, McTavish,” said Considine, on one of their exploring expeditions, “you are too particular. Yonder is a spot that seems to have been made on purpose for you—a green meadow for the cattle and sheep, when you get ’em; stones scattered here and there, of a shape that will suit admirably for building purposes without quarrying or dressing; a clump of mimosa-trees to shelter your cottage from winds that may blow down the valley, and a gentle green slope to break those that blow up; a superb acacia standing by itself on a ready-made lawn where your front door will be, under which you may have a rustic seat and table to retire to at eventide with Mrs McTavish and lovely young Jessie, to smoke your pipe and sip your tea.”

“Or toddy,” suggested Sandy Black.

“Or toddy,” assented Considine.

“Besides all this, you have the river making a graceful bend in front of your future drawing-room windows, and a vista of the valley away to the left, with a rocky eminence on the right, whence baboons can descend to rob your future orchard at night, and sit chuckling at you in safety during the day, with a grand background of wooded gorges,—or corries, as you Scotch have it, or kloofs, according to the boers—and a noble range of snow-clad mountains to complete the picture!”

“Not a bad description for so young a man,” said McTavish, surveying the spot with a critical eye; “quite in our poetical leader’s style. You should go over it again in his hearing, and ask him to throw it into verse.”

“No; I cannot afford to give away the valuable produce of my brain. I will keep and sell it some day in England. But our leader has already forestalled me, I fear. He read to me something last night which he has just composed, and which bears some resemblance to it. Listen:—

“‘Now we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospect wild, grotesque, and strange;Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir ribs of granite bare and dry.And ridges, by the torrents worn,Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,Which fringes Nature’s savage dress,Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.But where the Vale winds deepbelow,The landscape hath a warmer glowThere the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drestAnd the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar-birds among its blooms,With the deep-green verdure blendingIn the stream of light descending.’

“‘Now we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospect wild, grotesque, and strange;Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir ribs of granite bare and dry.And ridges, by the torrents worn,Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,Which fringes Nature’s savage dress,Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.But where the Vale winds deepbelow,The landscape hath a warmer glowThere the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drestAnd the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar-birds among its blooms,With the deep-green verdure blendingIn the stream of light descending.’

“Something or other follows, I forget what, and then:—

“‘With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er,Behind ascends the mountain hoar,Where the grin satyr-faced baboonSits gibbering to the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse or angry cryTh’intruder as he wanders by.’

“‘With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er,Behind ascends the mountain hoar,Where the grin satyr-faced baboonSits gibbering to the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse or angry cryTh’intruder as he wanders by.’

“There—I can’t remember the rest of it,” said Considine, “and I’m not even sure that what I’ve quoted is correct, but you see Mr Pringle’s mind has jumped before mine,—and higher.”

“Man, it’s no’ that bad,” observed Black, with emphasis. “Depend on’t—though I mak’ nae pretence to the gift o’ prophecy—he’ll come oot as a bard yet—the bard o’ Glen Lynden maybe, or Sooth Afriky.—Hech, sirs!” added Sandy, pointing with a look of surprise to a tree, many of the pendent branches of which had peculiar round-shaped birds’-nests attached to them, “what’s goin’ on there, think ’ee?”

The tree to which the Scot directed attention overhung the stream, and down one of its branches a snake was seen twining itself with caution. It evidently meant to rob one of the nests, for the little owner, with some of its companions, was shrieking and fluttering round the would-be robber. This kind of bird has been gifted with special wisdom to guard its home from snakes. It forms the entrance to its pendent nest at the bottom instead of the top, and hangs the nest itself at the extreme point of the finest twigs, so that the snake is compelled to wriggle downwards perpendicularly, and at last has to extend part of its body past the nest, in order to be able to turn its head upwards into the hole. Great, unquestionably, is a snake’s capacity to hold on by its tail, but this holding on as it were to next-to-nothing is usually too much for it. While the explorers were watching, the snake turned its head upwards for the final dive into the nest, but its coils slipped, and it fell into the water amid triumphant shrieks from the little birds. Nothing daunted, however, the snake swam ashore and made another attempt—with the same result. Again it made the trial; a third time it failed, and then, in evident disgust, went off to attack some easier prey.

While Considine and his companions were thus out in search of good localities on which to plant future homesteads, the greater part of the settlers were engaged, at a spot which they had named Clifton, in erecting temporary huts of the wattle-and-dab order. Mr Pringle himself, with a bold fellow named Rennie, remained to guard the camp, as they had reason to fear a surprise from Bushmen marauders, known at that time to be roaming the neighbourhood. More than once the sentinels were tempted to fire into a band of baboons, whom they not unnaturally mistook for Bushmen!

Other parties were sent out to cut wood and reeds, which they had to carry into camp, sometimes two or three miles, on their shoulders, while some were despatched into the kloofs to hunt, provisions having by that time grown scarce. Not being a sportsman himself, and not feeling sure of the power of his men, who were at that time unaccustomed to the gun, Mr Pringle wisely sent two of the party to the nearest station—about forty miles distant—to inquire about a supply of provisions and a few horses, which were expected from the Government-farm of Somerset.

The first hunting party sent out was not a select one, the people generally being too eager about examining and determining their immediate locations to care about sport. It consisted of young Rivers and Jerry Goldboy. The former was appointed, or rather allowed, to go, more because of his sporting enthusiasm than because of any evidence he had yet given of his powers, and the latter merely because he desired to go. For the same reason he was permitted to arm himself with his blunderbuss. Rivers carried a heavy double-barrelled fowling-piece. He was a stout active impulsive young fellow, with the look of a capable Nimrod.

“You’d have been better with a fowling-piece, or even a Dutch roer,” said Rivers, casting a doubtful look at the blunderbuss as they entered the jungle and began to ascend one of the nearest subsidiary glens or kloofs.

“Well now, sir,” said Jerry respectfully, “I don’t agree with you. A man who goes a-shootin’ with a fowlin’-piece or a Dutch gun must ’ave some sort o’ capacity for shootin’—mustn’t ’e, sir?”

“Well, I suppose he must.”

“W’ereas,” continued Jerry, “a man who goes a-shootin’ with a blunderbuss don’t require no such qualification—that’s w’ere it is, sir.”

“D’you mean to say that you can’t shoot?” asked Rivers, with a look of surprise.

“No more, sir,” replied Jerry with emphasis, “than the weathercock of a Dutch Reformed Church. Of course I know ’ow to load—powder first, ball or shot arterwards; it’s usually gravel with me, that bein’, so to speak, ’andy and cheap. An’ I knows w’ich end o’ the piece to putt to my shoulder, likewise ’ow to pull the trigger, but of more than that I’m hinnocent as the babe unborn. Ah! you may laugh, sir, but after all I’m a pretty sure shot. Indeed I seldom miss, because I putt in such a ’eavy charge, and the ’buss scatters so fearfully that it’s all but impossible to miss—unless you fairly turn your back on the game and fires in the opposite direction.”

“You’re a pleasant hunting companion!” said Rivers. “Do you know the importance of always keeping the muzzle of your gunawayfrom the unfortunate fellow you chance to be shooting with?”

“Ho, yes, sir. The dangerous natur’ of my weapon is so great that I’ve adopted the plan of always walking, as you see, with what the milingtary call ‘shouldered arms,’ which endangers nothin’ but the sky—includin’ the planetory system—except w’en I ’appens to fall, w’en, of course, it’s every man lookout for hisself. But there’s one consolation for you, sir,—my blunderbuss don’t go off easy. It takes two pulls of the trigger, mostly, to bring fire out o’ the flint, and as I often forget to prime—there’s a third safeguard in that, so to speak.”

Further converse was interrupted by the sudden bursting of a duiker, or large antelope, from a thicket close beside them. Both sportsmen levelled their pieces, but, the jungle there being dense, the animal vanished before either could fire. With the eager haste of tyros, however, they ran stumbling after it until they came to an open stretch of ground which led them to the edge of a small plain. Here they simultaneously discovered that no duiker was to be seen, though they observed a troop of quaggas far out of range, and a hartebeest in the distance. The former, observing them, kicked up their heels, and dashed away into the mountains. The latter, a handsome creature, the size of an average pony and fleet as a stag, bounded into the jungle.

“No use going after these,” said Rivers, with a wistful gaze.

“No, sir,—none w’atever.”

“Better keep to the jungle and be ready next time,” said the young sportsman. “We mustn’t talk, Jerry.”

“No, sir; mum’s the word. But ’ow if we should meet with a lion?”

“Shoot it of course. But there is no such luck in store for us.”

After this the hunters proceeded with greater caution. As they kept in the thick bush, they frequently startled animals, which they heard leaping up and bursting through the underwood, but seldom got a glimpse, and never a shot.

“Tantalising, ain’t it, sir?”

“Hush!”

They issued on another open space at this point, and, seeing a thick bed of sedges near the margin of a stream, proceeded towards it, separating from each other a few yards in order to cover the ground.

There was a sudden and violent shaking in the sedges on their approach, as if some large animal had been aroused from sleep, but the tall reeds prevented its being seen.

“Look out, Jerry, and keep more on the other side—there—Hallo!”

As he spoke, a creature called by the Dutch colonists a reit-vark, or reed-swine, whose quick starts and sharp stoppages betrayed its indecision, at length made up its mind and rushed out of the reeds in wild alarm close to Rivers, who, although ready, was incapable of restraining himself, and fired in haste. The ball nevertheless slightly grazed the animal’s side.

With a shriek of intense agony, such as only a brute of the porcine tribe can utter, the reit-vark swerved aside and ran straight, though unintentionally, at Jerry Goldboy.

Self-control not being Jerry’s forte, he uttered a great cry, presented the blunderbuss with both hands, shut his eyes, and fired. The butt of his piece came back on his chest and floored him, and the half-pound of gravel charge went into the forehead of the reit-vark, which dropped with a final groan, whose clear import was—“no earthly use in struggling afterthat!” Recovering himself, Jerry was jubilant over his success. Rivers was almost envious.

They proceeded, but killed nothing more afterwards, though they saw much. Among other things, they saw a footprint in the sand which filled them with interest and awe.

It was that of a lion! During the journey up from the coast they had seen much game, large and small, of every kind, except the Cape “tiger” and the lion. They had indeed, once or twice,heardthe peculiar growl orgurrof the former, but until this day none of the party had seen even the footprint of the king of beasts. Of course the interest and excitement was proportional. Of course, also, when the subject was discussed round the camp-fires that night, there was a good deal of “chaffing” among the younger men about the probability of a mistake as to the nature of the footprints by such unaccustomed sportsmen; but Rivers was so confident in his statements, and Jerry was so contemptuous in his manner of demanding whether there was any difference between the paw of a cat and a lion, except in size, and whether he was not perfectly familiar with a cat’s paw, that no room for scepticism remained.

It had been a threatening day. Muttered thunder had been heard at intervals, and occasional showers,—the first that had assailed them since their arrival in the glen. The night became tempestuous, cold, and very dark, so that soon all were glad to seek the shelter of the tents or of the half-finished wattle-and-dab huts, except the sentinels. Of these, two were appointed for every watch. Masters and servants shared this disagreeable duty equally. Particularly disagreeable it was that night, for the rain came down in such torrents that it was difficult to keep the fires alight despite a good supply of firewood.

About midnight the sleeping camp was aroused by the roar of a lion close to the tents. It was so loud and so tremendous that some of the sleepy-heads thought for a moment a thunderstorm had burst upon them. Every one was up in a second—the men with guns, pistols, swords, and knives. There was no mistaking theexpressionof the roar—the voice of fury as well as of power.

“Whereaboots is the brute?” cried Sandy Black, who, roused to unwonted excitement by the royal voice, issued from his tent in a red nightcap and drawers, with a gun in one hand and a carving-knife in the other.

“Here!” “There!” “In this direction!” “No, it isn’t!” “I say it is!” and similar exclamations, burst from every one. The uncertainty was probably occasioned partly by the mode the animal has of sometimes putting his mouth close to the ground when he roars, so that the voice rolls along like a billow; partly also by the echo from a mountain-rock which rose abruptly on the opposite bank of the river. Finding it impossible to decide the question of direction, the party fired volleys and threw firebrands in all directions, and this they did with such vigour that his kingship retired without uttering another sound.

It was a grand, a royal, almost a humorous mode of breaking a spell—the spell of unbelief in lions,—which some of the party had been under up to that moment. They remained under it no longer!

As if to confirm and fix the impression thus made, this lion,—or another,—gave some of the party a daylight interview. George Rennie, McTavish, Considine, Black, and others, had gone up the river to cut reeds in the bed of the stream. While they were busily engaged with their sickles, up rose a majestic lion in their very midst!

“Preserve us a’!” exclaimed Black, who was nearest to him.

Jerry Goldboy turned to seize his blunderbuss. The lion leaped upon the bank of the river, turned round and gazed upon the men.

“Let go!” exclaimed Jerry in a hoarse whisper, endeavouring to shake off the vice-like grip that Black had laid on his arm.

“Keep quiet, man,” growled Black sternly.

The rest of the party were wise enough not to interfere with the lion. They were at that time inexperienced. To have wounded him would have brought disaster, perhaps death, on some of them. George Rennie (who afterwards became a celebrated lion-hunter) was emphatic in advising caution. After gazing in quiet surprise on the intruders for a minute or so, he turned and retired; first slowly, and then, after getting some distance off, at a good round trot.

This was the first sight they had of the royal beast. Afterwards, during the winter and spring, they had frequent visits from lions, but did not suffer actual damage from them. They also, in course of time, dared to “beard the lion in his den,”—but of that more anon.

The labour of the settlers at this time—before oxen and horses were procured—was very severe. Of course this had the effect of weeding the little company of some of its chaff in the shape of lazy and discontented men. One said that he “had not been engaged to work by day, and watch by night, as well as living in constant fear of being scalped by savages or devoured by wild beasts.” The observation being true and unanswerable, he was “graciously permitted to retire from the service,” and returned to Algoa Bay. But on the whole there was little murmuring, and no rebellion. By degrees difficulties were smoothed down. A squatter on one of the forfeited farms, about eight miles off, who with his family lived solely on flesh and milk, was engaged to lend a hand with his waggon and oxen to “flit” the families to their various locations. He also sold the settlers a few sheep. In time, more sheep and oxen were purchased from the Dutch farmers on the Tarka, a river on the other side of the mountains. Hottentots came from Somerset with flour. Thatched huts replaced the tents. A few horses were obtained. Gardens were cleared and enclosed. Trenches for irrigation were cut. Trees were rooted out, and ploughs were set to work. Ten armed Hottentots were sent by the magistrates of the district to which they belonged, to guard and relieve them of night-watches, and with these came the news that ten of their friend Opperman’s cattle, and seven belonging to their neighbour the squatter, had been carried off by Bushmen.

At this point Sandy Black aroused the admiration of the ten Hottentots by setting to work one morning in September—the beginning of spring in South Africa—with a Scotch plough, which was guided entirely by himself and drawn by only two oxen. His dark-skinned admirers had never seen any other plough than the enormous unwieldy implement then in use among the Dutch, which had only one handle, no coulter, was usually drawn by ten or twelve oxen, and managed by three or four men and boys.

By degrees those of the party who were good linguists began to pick up Dutch. Mr Pringle, especially, soon became familiar enough with it to be able to hold a Dutch service on Sundays, in addition to the English, for the benefit of the Hottentot guards. He also added a slight knowledge of medicine to his other qualifications, and was thus enabled to minister to the wants of body and soul, at a time when the people had no regular physician or professional minister of the Gospel.

The arrival of horses gave the settlers opportunities of making more extended and more thorough explorations of their own domain, and the daily routine of life was varied and enlivened by an occasional visit from the Tarka boers, whom they found good-natured and hospitable—also very shrewd at a bargain!

Thus they took root and began to grow.

But before many of these things occurred Hans Marais came over the mountains, according to promise, and “Professor” Considine was fain to bid the Scotch settlers farewell, promising, however, to return and visit them on some future day.

Chapter Twelve.Gives some Account of a Great Lion-Hunt.Although the lion’s roar had been frequently heard by the settlers of Glen Lynden, some months elapsed before they came into actual conflict with his majesty. By that time the little colony had taken firm root. It had also been strengthened by a few families of half-castes or mulattos.One morning it was discovered that a horse had been carried off by a lion, and as his track was clearly traceable into a neighbouring kloof, the boldest men of the settlement, as well as some Dutchmen who chanced to be there at the time, were speedily assembled for a regular hunt after the audacious thief.It was a great occasion, and some of the men who became noted for prowess in after years began their career on that day. George Rennie, who ultimately acquired the title of the Lion-hunter, came to the rendezvous with a large elephant-gun on his shoulder; also his brother John, fearless and daring as himself. Then followed the brothers Diederik and Christian Muller,—frank, free, generous-hearted Dutchmen, who were already known as among the most intrepid lion-hunters of South Africa; and Arend Coetzer of Eland’s-drift; and Lucas Van Dyk, a tall dark muscular man of about six feet two, with a bushy black beard, and an eye like an eagle’s, carrying a gun almost as long and unwieldy as himself; and Slinger, Allie, and Dikkop, their sturdy Hottentot servants, with Dugal, a half-tamed Bushman, the special charge of Mr Pringle. These and several others were all armed with gun and spear and knife.Soon our friend Sandy Black, who had been summoned from work in his garden, joined them with a rusty old flint-lock gun. He was followed by young Rivers, with a double-barrelled percussion of large calibre, and by Kenneth McTavish, accompanied by his wife and Jessie, both imploring him earnestly, “not to be rash, and to keep well out of danger!”“Oh! Kenneth,” entreated Mrs M, “dobe careful. A lion issucha fearful thing!”“My dear, it’snota ‘thing’, it’s ananimal,” growled Kenneth, trying to induce his wife to go home.“Yes, but itisso dangerous, and only think, if it should get hold of you—and Iknowyour headstrong courage will make you do something foolhardy—what is to become of me and Jessie?”It was evident from the tone of McTavish’s reply that he did not care much what should become of either wife or daughter just then, for he saw that his male friends were laughing at him, but he was fortunately relieved by Jerry Goldboy coming up at the moment—with the blunderbuss on his shoulder—and informing Mrs McTavish that her “pet,” a lamb which had been recently purchased from one of the Tarka boers, was at large, with two or three hungry dogs looking earnestly at it!The good lady at once forsook the old goat, and ran back with Jessie to the rescue of the pet lamb.“What have ’ee putt i’ the ’buss?” asked Sandy Black of Jerry, with a sly look, as the latter joined the group of hunters.“Well, d’you know, I ain’t quite sure,” replied Jerry in some confusion; “I—I was called out so suddenly that I ’ad scarce time to think.”“Think!” repeated Black; “it doesna tak’ muckle time to think hoo to load a gun, but to be sureyourgun is a pecooliar ane.”“Well, you see,” returned Jerry, with the troubled look still on his countenance, “it does require a little consideration, because it would be useless to load with my ordinary charge of gravel for a lion. Then I feared to put in large stones, lest they should jam in the barrel an’ bu’st the hold thing. So I collected a lot of hold buttons and a few nails, besides two or three thimbles, but—”“Weel,” said Black, as his friend paused, “thae sort o’ slugs wull at least gie the lion a peppery sort o’ feeling, if naethin’ waur.”“Yes, but, d’you see,” continued Jerry, “there was a silver tea-spoon on the table when I made the collection of things, and after I had loaded I I couldn’t find the tea-spoon, and I fear—”Just at that moment Groot Willem galloped upon the scene and was received with a hearty cheer.The Hottentots were now sent on in advance to trace out the “spoor”—in other words, the track of the lion.On the way one of the Dutchmen entertained those of the settlers who were inexperienced with an account of the mode in which lion-hunts should be conducted. The right way to go to work, he said, was to set the dogs into the cover and drive the lion into the open, when the whole band of hunters should march forward together and fire either singly or in volleys. If he did not fall, but should grow furious and advance upon his assailants, then they should stand close in a circle and turn their horses with their heads from the foe, horses being usually much frightened at the sight of a lion. Some should hold the bridles, while others should kneel and take careful aim at the approaching enemy, which would crouch now and then as if to measure his distance and calculate the power of his spring. When he crouched, that was the time to shoot him fair in the head. If they should miss, which was not unlikely, or only wound the lion, and the horses should get frantic with tenor at his roars, and break loose, there was reason to fear that serious mischief might follow.No Red Indian of the backwoods ever followed the “trail” of beast or foe more unerringly than these Hottentots and mulattos tracked that lion through brushwood and brake, over grass and gravel, where in many places, to an unskilled eye, there was no visible mark at all. Their perseverance was rewarded: they came upon the enemy sooner than had been expected. At the distance of about a mile from the spot where he had killed the horse they found him in a straggling thicket.From this point of vantage he would by no means come out. The dogs were sent in, and they barked furiously enough, but the lion would not condescend to show fight. After some hours spent in thus vainly heating about the bush, George Rennie became impatient and resolved to “storm” the stronghold! In company with his brother John, and another man named Ekron, he prepared to enter the thicket where the lion was concealed, and persuaded three of the mulattos to follow in rear, and be ready to fire if their assault should prove abortive.It was of no use that Lucas, Van Dyk, and the Mullers, and other experienced Dutchmen, tried to dissuade them from their enterprise by assuring them that it was a ridiculous as well as reckless mode of attack, and would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The brothers Rennie, as yet inexperienced, were obstinate. They were bent on attacking the lion in his den.While this arrangement was being made the soul of Jerry Goldboy became unfortunately inflated with a desire to distinguish himself. Spiritually brave, though physically nervous, he made a sudden resolve to shoot that lion or die in the attempt! Without uttering a word he cocked his blunderbuss, and, before any one could prevent him, made a bold dash into the jungle at a point where the hounds were clamouring loudest.“Save us a’, the body’s gane gyte!” exclaimed Sandy Black, promptly following. “Come on, freen’s, or he’s a deed man.”Sandy’s impulse was suddenly arrested by a roar from the lion so tremendous that it appeared to shake the solid earth. Next moment Jerry beheld a large animal bound with a crash through the brake straight at him. His heart leaped into his mouth, but he retained sufficient vitality to present and fire. A wild yell followed, as the animal fell dead at his feet, and Jerry found that he had lodged the whole collection of buttons, nails, and miscellaneous articles, along with the tea-spoon, in the head of the best hound, which had been scared by the monarch’s appalling roar!It is difficult to say whether laughter or indignant growls were loudest on the occurrence of this, but it is certain that the brothers Rennie entered the thicket immediately after, despite the almost angry remonstrances of the more knowing men, advanced to within about fifteen paces of the spot where the lion lay crouched among the gnarled roots of an evergreen bush with a small space of open ground on one side of it.“Now then, boys,” said George Rennie, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder at the mulatto supports, “steady, and take good aim after we fire.”He put the elephant gun to his shoulder as he spoke, his brother and comrade did the same; a triple report followed, and the three heavy balls, aimed with deadly precision, struck a great block of red stone behind which the lion was lying.With a furious growl he shot from his lair like the bolt from a cross-bow. The mulattos instinctively turned and fled without firing a shot. The three champions, with empty guns, tumbled over each other in eager haste to escape the dreaded claws—but in vain, for with one stroke he dashed John Rennie to the ground, put his paw on him, and looked round with that dignified air of grandeur which has doubtless earned for his race the royal title. The scene was at once magnificent, thrilling, and ludicrous. It was impossible for the other hunters to fire, because while one man was under the lion’s paw the others were scrambling towards them in such a way as to render an aim impossible.After gazing at them steadily for a few seconds the lion turned as if in sovereign contempt, scattered the hounds like a pack of rats, and, with a majestic bound over bushes upwards of twelve feet high, re-entered the jungle. With a feeling of indignation at such contemptuous treatment, George Rennie re-charged his gun in haste, vowing vengeance against the whole feline race—a vow which he fully redeemed in after years. His brother John, who was injured to the extent of a scratch on the back and a severe bruise on the ribs by the rough treatment he had received, arose and slowly followed his example, and Groot Willem, growling in a tone that would have done credit to the lion himself, and losing for the moment the usual wisdom of his countrymen in such encounters, strode savagely into the jungle, followed by Sandy Black and Jerry, the latter of whom appeared to labour under a sort of frenzied courage which urged him on to deeds of desperate valour. At all events he had recharged his piece of ordnance to the very muzzle with a miscellaneous compound of sand, stones, and sticks—anything, in short, that would go down its capacious throat,—and, pushing wildly past Groot Willem, took the lead.It was perhaps well for these strangely-assorted hunters that the lion had made up his mind to quit the jungle. A few minutes later he was seen retreating towards the mountains, and the chase was renewed, with hounds and Hottentots in full cry. They came up with him in a short time at bay under a mimosa-tree by the side of a streamlet. He lashed his tail and growled fiercely as he glared at the dogs, which barked and yelped round him, though they took good care to keep out of reach of his claws. While they stirred up his wrath to the boiling point, they at the same time distracted his attention, so that a party of Hottentots, getting between him and the mountain side, took up a position on a precipice which overlooked the spot where he stood at bay. Suddenly the lion appeared to change his mind. Turning as before, and clearing all obstacles at a bound, he took refuge in a dense thicket, into which a heavy fire was poured without any effect. Again George Rennie lost patience. He descended from the height accompanied by a favourite little dog, and threw two large stones into the thicket. His challenge was accepted on the spot. The lion leaped out with a roar, and was on the point of making another bound, which would certainly have been fatal to the hunter, but the little dog ran boldly up and barked in his face. The momentary interruption saved Rennie, who leaped backward, but the dog was instantly killed with a flashing pat from the royal paw. At the same moment a volley was fired by the Hottentots from the heights. Unfortunately the position of Rennie rendered it impossible for the Mullers or any of the other expert shots to fire.Whether the volley had taken effect was uncertain, but it at all events turned the lion from his purpose. He wheeled round, and, abandoning the bush, took to a piece of open ground, across which the hunters and dogs followed him up hotly.The lion now took refuge in a small copse on a slight eminence. Diederik and Christian Muller were in advance, Groot Willem on his mighty charger came next. Van Dyk was running neck and neck with Jerry Goldboy, who flourished the blunderbuss over his head and yelled like a very demon. It was obvious that he was mad for the time being. The rest came up in a confused body, many of the men on foot having kept up with the horsemen.The Rennies, having by that time become wiser, gave up their reckless proceedings, and allowed Christian Muller, who was tacitly acknowledged the leader of the party, to direct. He gave the signal to dismount when within a short distance of the copse, and ordered the horses to be tied together as the different riders came up. This was quickly done, and of course all possibility of retreat was thus cut off. The plan was to advance in a body up the slope, leaving the horses in charge of the Hottentots.The preparations did not take long, but before they were completed a growl was heard, then a terrific roar, and the lion, who had made up his mind to act on the offensive, burst from the thicket and bore down on the party, his eyeballs glaring with rage. Being thus taken by surprise they were unprepared. His motion was so rapid that no one could take aim—except, indeed, Jerry, who discharged his piece at the sky, and, losing his balance, fell back with a wild halloo. Selecting one of the horses, the lion darted furiously at it. The affrighted animal sprang forward, and, in so doing, wheeled all the other horses violently round. The lion missed his aim, but faced about and crouched at a distance of only ten yards for another spring. It was a terrible moment! While the monster was meditating on which victim he should leap, Christian Muller was taking quick but deadly aim. If he should merely wound the brute, certain death to some one of the party would have been the instantaneous result. Most of them knew this well.Knowing also that Muller was cool and sure, they breathlessly awaited the result. Only three or four seconds were spent in aiming, but instants become minutes in such a case. Some of the men almost gasped with anxiety. Another moment, and Christian fired. The under jaw of the lion dropped, and blood gushed front his mouth. He turned round with a view to escape, but George Rennie shot him through the spine. Turning again with a look of vengeance, he attempted to spring, but the once powerful hind-legs were now paralysed. At the same moment, Groot Willem, Van Dyk, Sandy Black, and McTavish put balls into different parts of his body, and a man named Stephanus put an end to his existence by shooting him through the brain.It was a furious combat while it lasted, and a noble enemy had been subdued, for this lion, besides being magnificent of aspect even in death, measured full twelve feet from the point of his nose to the tip of his tail.

Although the lion’s roar had been frequently heard by the settlers of Glen Lynden, some months elapsed before they came into actual conflict with his majesty. By that time the little colony had taken firm root. It had also been strengthened by a few families of half-castes or mulattos.

One morning it was discovered that a horse had been carried off by a lion, and as his track was clearly traceable into a neighbouring kloof, the boldest men of the settlement, as well as some Dutchmen who chanced to be there at the time, were speedily assembled for a regular hunt after the audacious thief.

It was a great occasion, and some of the men who became noted for prowess in after years began their career on that day. George Rennie, who ultimately acquired the title of the Lion-hunter, came to the rendezvous with a large elephant-gun on his shoulder; also his brother John, fearless and daring as himself. Then followed the brothers Diederik and Christian Muller,—frank, free, generous-hearted Dutchmen, who were already known as among the most intrepid lion-hunters of South Africa; and Arend Coetzer of Eland’s-drift; and Lucas Van Dyk, a tall dark muscular man of about six feet two, with a bushy black beard, and an eye like an eagle’s, carrying a gun almost as long and unwieldy as himself; and Slinger, Allie, and Dikkop, their sturdy Hottentot servants, with Dugal, a half-tamed Bushman, the special charge of Mr Pringle. These and several others were all armed with gun and spear and knife.

Soon our friend Sandy Black, who had been summoned from work in his garden, joined them with a rusty old flint-lock gun. He was followed by young Rivers, with a double-barrelled percussion of large calibre, and by Kenneth McTavish, accompanied by his wife and Jessie, both imploring him earnestly, “not to be rash, and to keep well out of danger!”

“Oh! Kenneth,” entreated Mrs M, “dobe careful. A lion issucha fearful thing!”

“My dear, it’snota ‘thing’, it’s ananimal,” growled Kenneth, trying to induce his wife to go home.

“Yes, but itisso dangerous, and only think, if it should get hold of you—and Iknowyour headstrong courage will make you do something foolhardy—what is to become of me and Jessie?”

It was evident from the tone of McTavish’s reply that he did not care much what should become of either wife or daughter just then, for he saw that his male friends were laughing at him, but he was fortunately relieved by Jerry Goldboy coming up at the moment—with the blunderbuss on his shoulder—and informing Mrs McTavish that her “pet,” a lamb which had been recently purchased from one of the Tarka boers, was at large, with two or three hungry dogs looking earnestly at it!

The good lady at once forsook the old goat, and ran back with Jessie to the rescue of the pet lamb.

“What have ’ee putt i’ the ’buss?” asked Sandy Black of Jerry, with a sly look, as the latter joined the group of hunters.

“Well, d’you know, I ain’t quite sure,” replied Jerry in some confusion; “I—I was called out so suddenly that I ’ad scarce time to think.”

“Think!” repeated Black; “it doesna tak’ muckle time to think hoo to load a gun, but to be sureyourgun is a pecooliar ane.”

“Well, you see,” returned Jerry, with the troubled look still on his countenance, “it does require a little consideration, because it would be useless to load with my ordinary charge of gravel for a lion. Then I feared to put in large stones, lest they should jam in the barrel an’ bu’st the hold thing. So I collected a lot of hold buttons and a few nails, besides two or three thimbles, but—”

“Weel,” said Black, as his friend paused, “thae sort o’ slugs wull at least gie the lion a peppery sort o’ feeling, if naethin’ waur.”

“Yes, but, d’you see,” continued Jerry, “there was a silver tea-spoon on the table when I made the collection of things, and after I had loaded I I couldn’t find the tea-spoon, and I fear—”

Just at that moment Groot Willem galloped upon the scene and was received with a hearty cheer.

The Hottentots were now sent on in advance to trace out the “spoor”—in other words, the track of the lion.

On the way one of the Dutchmen entertained those of the settlers who were inexperienced with an account of the mode in which lion-hunts should be conducted. The right way to go to work, he said, was to set the dogs into the cover and drive the lion into the open, when the whole band of hunters should march forward together and fire either singly or in volleys. If he did not fall, but should grow furious and advance upon his assailants, then they should stand close in a circle and turn their horses with their heads from the foe, horses being usually much frightened at the sight of a lion. Some should hold the bridles, while others should kneel and take careful aim at the approaching enemy, which would crouch now and then as if to measure his distance and calculate the power of his spring. When he crouched, that was the time to shoot him fair in the head. If they should miss, which was not unlikely, or only wound the lion, and the horses should get frantic with tenor at his roars, and break loose, there was reason to fear that serious mischief might follow.

No Red Indian of the backwoods ever followed the “trail” of beast or foe more unerringly than these Hottentots and mulattos tracked that lion through brushwood and brake, over grass and gravel, where in many places, to an unskilled eye, there was no visible mark at all. Their perseverance was rewarded: they came upon the enemy sooner than had been expected. At the distance of about a mile from the spot where he had killed the horse they found him in a straggling thicket.

From this point of vantage he would by no means come out. The dogs were sent in, and they barked furiously enough, but the lion would not condescend to show fight. After some hours spent in thus vainly heating about the bush, George Rennie became impatient and resolved to “storm” the stronghold! In company with his brother John, and another man named Ekron, he prepared to enter the thicket where the lion was concealed, and persuaded three of the mulattos to follow in rear, and be ready to fire if their assault should prove abortive.

It was of no use that Lucas, Van Dyk, and the Mullers, and other experienced Dutchmen, tried to dissuade them from their enterprise by assuring them that it was a ridiculous as well as reckless mode of attack, and would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The brothers Rennie, as yet inexperienced, were obstinate. They were bent on attacking the lion in his den.

While this arrangement was being made the soul of Jerry Goldboy became unfortunately inflated with a desire to distinguish himself. Spiritually brave, though physically nervous, he made a sudden resolve to shoot that lion or die in the attempt! Without uttering a word he cocked his blunderbuss, and, before any one could prevent him, made a bold dash into the jungle at a point where the hounds were clamouring loudest.

“Save us a’, the body’s gane gyte!” exclaimed Sandy Black, promptly following. “Come on, freen’s, or he’s a deed man.”

Sandy’s impulse was suddenly arrested by a roar from the lion so tremendous that it appeared to shake the solid earth. Next moment Jerry beheld a large animal bound with a crash through the brake straight at him. His heart leaped into his mouth, but he retained sufficient vitality to present and fire. A wild yell followed, as the animal fell dead at his feet, and Jerry found that he had lodged the whole collection of buttons, nails, and miscellaneous articles, along with the tea-spoon, in the head of the best hound, which had been scared by the monarch’s appalling roar!

It is difficult to say whether laughter or indignant growls were loudest on the occurrence of this, but it is certain that the brothers Rennie entered the thicket immediately after, despite the almost angry remonstrances of the more knowing men, advanced to within about fifteen paces of the spot where the lion lay crouched among the gnarled roots of an evergreen bush with a small space of open ground on one side of it.

“Now then, boys,” said George Rennie, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder at the mulatto supports, “steady, and take good aim after we fire.”

He put the elephant gun to his shoulder as he spoke, his brother and comrade did the same; a triple report followed, and the three heavy balls, aimed with deadly precision, struck a great block of red stone behind which the lion was lying.

With a furious growl he shot from his lair like the bolt from a cross-bow. The mulattos instinctively turned and fled without firing a shot. The three champions, with empty guns, tumbled over each other in eager haste to escape the dreaded claws—but in vain, for with one stroke he dashed John Rennie to the ground, put his paw on him, and looked round with that dignified air of grandeur which has doubtless earned for his race the royal title. The scene was at once magnificent, thrilling, and ludicrous. It was impossible for the other hunters to fire, because while one man was under the lion’s paw the others were scrambling towards them in such a way as to render an aim impossible.

After gazing at them steadily for a few seconds the lion turned as if in sovereign contempt, scattered the hounds like a pack of rats, and, with a majestic bound over bushes upwards of twelve feet high, re-entered the jungle. With a feeling of indignation at such contemptuous treatment, George Rennie re-charged his gun in haste, vowing vengeance against the whole feline race—a vow which he fully redeemed in after years. His brother John, who was injured to the extent of a scratch on the back and a severe bruise on the ribs by the rough treatment he had received, arose and slowly followed his example, and Groot Willem, growling in a tone that would have done credit to the lion himself, and losing for the moment the usual wisdom of his countrymen in such encounters, strode savagely into the jungle, followed by Sandy Black and Jerry, the latter of whom appeared to labour under a sort of frenzied courage which urged him on to deeds of desperate valour. At all events he had recharged his piece of ordnance to the very muzzle with a miscellaneous compound of sand, stones, and sticks—anything, in short, that would go down its capacious throat,—and, pushing wildly past Groot Willem, took the lead.

It was perhaps well for these strangely-assorted hunters that the lion had made up his mind to quit the jungle. A few minutes later he was seen retreating towards the mountains, and the chase was renewed, with hounds and Hottentots in full cry. They came up with him in a short time at bay under a mimosa-tree by the side of a streamlet. He lashed his tail and growled fiercely as he glared at the dogs, which barked and yelped round him, though they took good care to keep out of reach of his claws. While they stirred up his wrath to the boiling point, they at the same time distracted his attention, so that a party of Hottentots, getting between him and the mountain side, took up a position on a precipice which overlooked the spot where he stood at bay. Suddenly the lion appeared to change his mind. Turning as before, and clearing all obstacles at a bound, he took refuge in a dense thicket, into which a heavy fire was poured without any effect. Again George Rennie lost patience. He descended from the height accompanied by a favourite little dog, and threw two large stones into the thicket. His challenge was accepted on the spot. The lion leaped out with a roar, and was on the point of making another bound, which would certainly have been fatal to the hunter, but the little dog ran boldly up and barked in his face. The momentary interruption saved Rennie, who leaped backward, but the dog was instantly killed with a flashing pat from the royal paw. At the same moment a volley was fired by the Hottentots from the heights. Unfortunately the position of Rennie rendered it impossible for the Mullers or any of the other expert shots to fire.

Whether the volley had taken effect was uncertain, but it at all events turned the lion from his purpose. He wheeled round, and, abandoning the bush, took to a piece of open ground, across which the hunters and dogs followed him up hotly.

The lion now took refuge in a small copse on a slight eminence. Diederik and Christian Muller were in advance, Groot Willem on his mighty charger came next. Van Dyk was running neck and neck with Jerry Goldboy, who flourished the blunderbuss over his head and yelled like a very demon. It was obvious that he was mad for the time being. The rest came up in a confused body, many of the men on foot having kept up with the horsemen.

The Rennies, having by that time become wiser, gave up their reckless proceedings, and allowed Christian Muller, who was tacitly acknowledged the leader of the party, to direct. He gave the signal to dismount when within a short distance of the copse, and ordered the horses to be tied together as the different riders came up. This was quickly done, and of course all possibility of retreat was thus cut off. The plan was to advance in a body up the slope, leaving the horses in charge of the Hottentots.

The preparations did not take long, but before they were completed a growl was heard, then a terrific roar, and the lion, who had made up his mind to act on the offensive, burst from the thicket and bore down on the party, his eyeballs glaring with rage. Being thus taken by surprise they were unprepared. His motion was so rapid that no one could take aim—except, indeed, Jerry, who discharged his piece at the sky, and, losing his balance, fell back with a wild halloo. Selecting one of the horses, the lion darted furiously at it. The affrighted animal sprang forward, and, in so doing, wheeled all the other horses violently round. The lion missed his aim, but faced about and crouched at a distance of only ten yards for another spring. It was a terrible moment! While the monster was meditating on which victim he should leap, Christian Muller was taking quick but deadly aim. If he should merely wound the brute, certain death to some one of the party would have been the instantaneous result. Most of them knew this well.

Knowing also that Muller was cool and sure, they breathlessly awaited the result. Only three or four seconds were spent in aiming, but instants become minutes in such a case. Some of the men almost gasped with anxiety. Another moment, and Christian fired. The under jaw of the lion dropped, and blood gushed front his mouth. He turned round with a view to escape, but George Rennie shot him through the spine. Turning again with a look of vengeance, he attempted to spring, but the once powerful hind-legs were now paralysed. At the same moment, Groot Willem, Van Dyk, Sandy Black, and McTavish put balls into different parts of his body, and a man named Stephanus put an end to his existence by shooting him through the brain.

It was a furious combat while it lasted, and a noble enemy had been subdued, for this lion, besides being magnificent of aspect even in death, measured full twelve feet from the point of his nose to the tip of his tail.

Chapter Thirteen.Adventure with an Ostrich.Time passed rapidly, and the settlers, both highland and lowland, struck their roots deeper and deeper into the soil of their adoption—watched and criticised more or less amiably by their predecessors, the few Dutch-African farmers who up to that time had struggled on the frontier all alone.One day Hans Marais was riding with Charlie Considine on the karroo, not far from the farm-house. They had been conversing on the condition and prospects of the land, and the trials and difficulties of the British settlers. Suddenly they came on an ostrich sitting on its eggs under a bush. The bird rose and ran on seeing the horsemen.“I daresay the cock-bird is not far off,” observed Hans, riding up to the nest, which was merely a slight hollow scraped in the sandy soil, and contained a dozen eggs. “He is a gallant bird; guards his wife most faithfully, and shares her duties.”“I’ve sometimes thought,” said Considine musingly, “that the ostrich might be tamed and bred on your farms. With such valuable feathers it would be worth while to try.”“You are not the first who has suggested that, Charlie. My own mother has more than once spoken of it.”“Stay a minute,” said Considine; “I shall take one of the eggs home to her.”“Not fit to eat. Probably half hatched,” said Hans.“No matter,” returned the other, dismounting.“Well, I’ll ride to the ridge and see if the papa is within hail.”Hans did but bare justice to the cock ostrich when he said he was a gallant bird. It is within the mark to say that he is not only a pattern husband, but a most exemplary father, for, besides guarding his wife and her nest most jealously by day, he relieves her at night, and sits himself on the nest, while his better-half takes food and relaxation.While Hans rode forward a few hundred yards, the cock, which chanced to be out feeding on the plain, observed his wife running excitedly among the bushes, and at the same moment caught a glimpse of the Dutchman.Seven-league boots could not have aided that ostrich! With mighty strides and outstretched wings the giant bird rushed in furious rage to defend its nest. Hans saw it, and, instantly putting spurs to his horse, also made for the nest, but the ostrich beat him.“Look out, Charlie!” shouted Hans.Charlie did look out, somewhat anxiously too, turning his head nervously from side to side, for while the thunder of hoofs and the warning cry of Hans assailed him on one side, a rushing and hissing sound was heard on the other. The suspense did not last long. A few seconds later, and the ostrich appeared, bearing down on him with railway speed. He raised his gun and fired, but in the haste of the moment missed. The cap of the second barrel snapped. He clubbed his gun, but, before he could raise it, the ferocious bird was on him. Towering high over his head, it must have been between eight and nine feet in height. One kick of its great two-toed foot sufficed. The ostrich kicks forward, as a man might when he wishes to burst in a door with his foot, and no prize-fighter can hit out with greater celerity, no horse can kick with greater force. If the blow had taken full effect it would probably have been fatal, but Considine leaped back. It reached him, however—on the chest,—and knocked him flat on the nest, where he lay stunned amid a wreck of eggs.The vicious bird was about to follow up its victory by dancing on its prostrate foe, when Hans galloped up. The bird turned on him at once, with a hiss and a furious rush. The terrified horse reared and wheeled round with such force as almost to throw Hans, who dropped his gun in trying to keep his seat. Jumping into the air, and bringing its foot down with a resounding smack, the bird sent its two formidable nails deep into the steed’s flank, from which blood flowed copiously. The horse took the bit in its teeth, and ran.Hans Marais was very strong, but fear was stronger. The horse fairly ran off, and the ostrich pursued. Being fleeter than the horse, it not only kept up with ease, but managed ever and anon to give it another kick on flank, sides, or limbs. Hans vainly tried to grasp his assailant by the neck. If he succeeded in this he knew that he could easily have choked it, for the ostrich’s weak point is its long slender neck—its strong point being its tremendous leg, the thigh of which, blue-black, and destitute of feathers, resembles a leg of mutton in shape and size.At last Hans bethought him of his stirrup. Unbuckling it, he swung it by the leather round his head, and succeeded, after one or two attempts, in hitting his enemy on the head with the iron. The ostrich dropped at once and never rose again.Returning to the nest with his vanquished foe strapped to his saddle, he found Considine sitting somewhat confused among the egg-débris, much of which consisted of flattened young ones, for the eggs were in an advanced state of incubation.“Why, Charlie, are you going to try your hand at hatching?” cried Hans, laughing in spite of himself.Considine smiled rather ruefully. “I believe my breast-bone is knocked in. Just help me to examine; but first catch my horse, like a good fellow.”It was found on examination that no bones were broken, and that, beyond a bruise, Considine was none the worse of his adventure.One egg was found to have survived the general destruction. This was taken to the farm and handed to Mrs Marais, and that amiable lady adopted and hatched it! We do not mean to assert that she sat upon it, but having discovered, from mysterious sounds inside, that the young ostrich contained in it was still alive, and, being a woman of an experimental tendency, she resolved to become a mother to it. She prepared a box, by lining it with a warm feather pillow, above which she spread several skin karosses or blankets, and into this she put the egg. Every morning and every evening she visited the nest, felt the egg to ascertain its temperature, and added or removed a blanket according to circumstances. How the good woman knew the proper temperature is a mystery which no one could explain, but certain it is that she succeeded, for in a few days the little one became so lively in its prison as to suggest the idea that it wanted out. Mrs Marais then listened attentively to the sounds, and, having come to a decision as to which end of the egg contained the head of the bird, she cracked the shell at that point and returned it to the nest.Thus aided, the infant ostrich, whose head and feet lay in juxtaposition, began life most appropriately with its strongest point—put its best foot foremost; drove out the end of its prison with a kick, and looked astonished. One or two more kicks and it was out. Next time its foster-mother visited the nest she found the little one free,—but subdued, as if it knew it had been naughty,—and with that “well—what—next?” expression of countenance which is peculiar to very young birds in general.When born, this little creature was about the size of a small barn-door hen, but it was exceeding weak as well as long in the legs, and its first efforts at walking were a mere burlesque.The feeding of this foundling was in keeping with its antecedents. Mrs Marais was a thoroughgoing but incomprehensible woman. One would have thought that boiled sheep’s liver, chopped fine, and hens’ eggs boiled hard, were about the most violently opposed to probability in the way of food for an ostrich, old or young. Yet that is the food which she gave this baby. The manner of giving it, too, was in accordance with the gift.Sitting down on a low stool, she placed the patient—so to speak—on its back, between her knees, and held it fast; then she rammed the liver and egg down its throat with her fingers as far as they would reach, after which she set it on its legs and left it for a few minutes to contemplation. Hitching it suddenly on its back again, she repeated the operation until it had had enough. In regard to quantity, she regulated herself by feeling its stomach. In the matter of drink she was more pronounced than a teetotaler, for she gave it none at all.Thus she continued perseveringly to act until the young ostrich was old enough to go out in charge of a little Hottentot girl named Hreikie, who became a very sister to it, and whose life thence-forward was spent either in going to sleep under bushes, on the understanding that she was taking care of baby, or in laughing at the singular way in which her charge waltzed when in a facetious mood.There is no doubt that this ostrich would have reached a healthy maturity if its career had not been cut short by a hyena.Not until many years after this did “ostrich-farming” and feather-exporting become, as it still continues, one of the most important branches of commercial enterprise in the Cape Colony; but we cannot avoid the conclusion, that, as Watt gave the first impulse to the steam-engine when he sat and watched the boiling kettle, so Mrs Marais opened the door to a great colonial industry when she held that infant ostrich between her knees, and stuffed it with minced eggs and liver.

Time passed rapidly, and the settlers, both highland and lowland, struck their roots deeper and deeper into the soil of their adoption—watched and criticised more or less amiably by their predecessors, the few Dutch-African farmers who up to that time had struggled on the frontier all alone.

One day Hans Marais was riding with Charlie Considine on the karroo, not far from the farm-house. They had been conversing on the condition and prospects of the land, and the trials and difficulties of the British settlers. Suddenly they came on an ostrich sitting on its eggs under a bush. The bird rose and ran on seeing the horsemen.

“I daresay the cock-bird is not far off,” observed Hans, riding up to the nest, which was merely a slight hollow scraped in the sandy soil, and contained a dozen eggs. “He is a gallant bird; guards his wife most faithfully, and shares her duties.”

“I’ve sometimes thought,” said Considine musingly, “that the ostrich might be tamed and bred on your farms. With such valuable feathers it would be worth while to try.”

“You are not the first who has suggested that, Charlie. My own mother has more than once spoken of it.”

“Stay a minute,” said Considine; “I shall take one of the eggs home to her.”

“Not fit to eat. Probably half hatched,” said Hans.

“No matter,” returned the other, dismounting.

“Well, I’ll ride to the ridge and see if the papa is within hail.”

Hans did but bare justice to the cock ostrich when he said he was a gallant bird. It is within the mark to say that he is not only a pattern husband, but a most exemplary father, for, besides guarding his wife and her nest most jealously by day, he relieves her at night, and sits himself on the nest, while his better-half takes food and relaxation.

While Hans rode forward a few hundred yards, the cock, which chanced to be out feeding on the plain, observed his wife running excitedly among the bushes, and at the same moment caught a glimpse of the Dutchman.

Seven-league boots could not have aided that ostrich! With mighty strides and outstretched wings the giant bird rushed in furious rage to defend its nest. Hans saw it, and, instantly putting spurs to his horse, also made for the nest, but the ostrich beat him.

“Look out, Charlie!” shouted Hans.

Charlie did look out, somewhat anxiously too, turning his head nervously from side to side, for while the thunder of hoofs and the warning cry of Hans assailed him on one side, a rushing and hissing sound was heard on the other. The suspense did not last long. A few seconds later, and the ostrich appeared, bearing down on him with railway speed. He raised his gun and fired, but in the haste of the moment missed. The cap of the second barrel snapped. He clubbed his gun, but, before he could raise it, the ferocious bird was on him. Towering high over his head, it must have been between eight and nine feet in height. One kick of its great two-toed foot sufficed. The ostrich kicks forward, as a man might when he wishes to burst in a door with his foot, and no prize-fighter can hit out with greater celerity, no horse can kick with greater force. If the blow had taken full effect it would probably have been fatal, but Considine leaped back. It reached him, however—on the chest,—and knocked him flat on the nest, where he lay stunned amid a wreck of eggs.

The vicious bird was about to follow up its victory by dancing on its prostrate foe, when Hans galloped up. The bird turned on him at once, with a hiss and a furious rush. The terrified horse reared and wheeled round with such force as almost to throw Hans, who dropped his gun in trying to keep his seat. Jumping into the air, and bringing its foot down with a resounding smack, the bird sent its two formidable nails deep into the steed’s flank, from which blood flowed copiously. The horse took the bit in its teeth, and ran.

Hans Marais was very strong, but fear was stronger. The horse fairly ran off, and the ostrich pursued. Being fleeter than the horse, it not only kept up with ease, but managed ever and anon to give it another kick on flank, sides, or limbs. Hans vainly tried to grasp his assailant by the neck. If he succeeded in this he knew that he could easily have choked it, for the ostrich’s weak point is its long slender neck—its strong point being its tremendous leg, the thigh of which, blue-black, and destitute of feathers, resembles a leg of mutton in shape and size.

At last Hans bethought him of his stirrup. Unbuckling it, he swung it by the leather round his head, and succeeded, after one or two attempts, in hitting his enemy on the head with the iron. The ostrich dropped at once and never rose again.

Returning to the nest with his vanquished foe strapped to his saddle, he found Considine sitting somewhat confused among the egg-débris, much of which consisted of flattened young ones, for the eggs were in an advanced state of incubation.

“Why, Charlie, are you going to try your hand at hatching?” cried Hans, laughing in spite of himself.

Considine smiled rather ruefully. “I believe my breast-bone is knocked in. Just help me to examine; but first catch my horse, like a good fellow.”

It was found on examination that no bones were broken, and that, beyond a bruise, Considine was none the worse of his adventure.

One egg was found to have survived the general destruction. This was taken to the farm and handed to Mrs Marais, and that amiable lady adopted and hatched it! We do not mean to assert that she sat upon it, but having discovered, from mysterious sounds inside, that the young ostrich contained in it was still alive, and, being a woman of an experimental tendency, she resolved to become a mother to it. She prepared a box, by lining it with a warm feather pillow, above which she spread several skin karosses or blankets, and into this she put the egg. Every morning and every evening she visited the nest, felt the egg to ascertain its temperature, and added or removed a blanket according to circumstances. How the good woman knew the proper temperature is a mystery which no one could explain, but certain it is that she succeeded, for in a few days the little one became so lively in its prison as to suggest the idea that it wanted out. Mrs Marais then listened attentively to the sounds, and, having come to a decision as to which end of the egg contained the head of the bird, she cracked the shell at that point and returned it to the nest.

Thus aided, the infant ostrich, whose head and feet lay in juxtaposition, began life most appropriately with its strongest point—put its best foot foremost; drove out the end of its prison with a kick, and looked astonished. One or two more kicks and it was out. Next time its foster-mother visited the nest she found the little one free,—but subdued, as if it knew it had been naughty,—and with that “well—what—next?” expression of countenance which is peculiar to very young birds in general.

When born, this little creature was about the size of a small barn-door hen, but it was exceeding weak as well as long in the legs, and its first efforts at walking were a mere burlesque.

The feeding of this foundling was in keeping with its antecedents. Mrs Marais was a thoroughgoing but incomprehensible woman. One would have thought that boiled sheep’s liver, chopped fine, and hens’ eggs boiled hard, were about the most violently opposed to probability in the way of food for an ostrich, old or young. Yet that is the food which she gave this baby. The manner of giving it, too, was in accordance with the gift.

Sitting down on a low stool, she placed the patient—so to speak—on its back, between her knees, and held it fast; then she rammed the liver and egg down its throat with her fingers as far as they would reach, after which she set it on its legs and left it for a few minutes to contemplation. Hitching it suddenly on its back again, she repeated the operation until it had had enough. In regard to quantity, she regulated herself by feeling its stomach. In the matter of drink she was more pronounced than a teetotaler, for she gave it none at all.

Thus she continued perseveringly to act until the young ostrich was old enough to go out in charge of a little Hottentot girl named Hreikie, who became a very sister to it, and whose life thence-forward was spent either in going to sleep under bushes, on the understanding that she was taking care of baby, or in laughing at the singular way in which her charge waltzed when in a facetious mood.

There is no doubt that this ostrich would have reached a healthy maturity if its career had not been cut short by a hyena.

Not until many years after this did “ostrich-farming” and feather-exporting become, as it still continues, one of the most important branches of commercial enterprise in the Cape Colony; but we cannot avoid the conclusion, that, as Watt gave the first impulse to the steam-engine when he sat and watched the boiling kettle, so Mrs Marais opened the door to a great colonial industry when she held that infant ostrich between her knees, and stuffed it with minced eggs and liver.

Chapter Fourteen.The Bergenaars.“So you like the study of French?” said Charlie Considine, as he sat one morning beside Bertha Marais in the porch of her father’s dwelling.“Yes, very much,” answered the girl. She said no more, but she thought, “Especially when I am taught it by such a kind, painstaking teacher as you.”“And you like to live in the wild karroo?” asked the youth.“Of course I do,” was the reply, with a look of surprise.“Of course. It was a stupid question, Bertha; I did not think at the moment that it ishometo you, and that you have known no other since you were a little child. But to my mind it would be a dull sort of life to live here always.”“Do you find it so dull?” asked Bertha, with a sad look.“No, not in the least,” replied the youth, quickly. “HowcouldI, living as I do with such pleasant people, like one of their own kith and kin, hunting with the sons and teaching the daughters—to say nothing of scolding them and playing chess, and singing and riding. Oh no! I’m anything but dull, but I was talkinggenerallyof life in the karroo. If I lived alone, for instance, like poor Horley, or with a disagreeable family like that of Jan Smit—by the way, that reminds me that we have heard news of the three runaways, Ruyter, Jemalee, and Booby.”“Oh! I’m so glad,” cried Bertha, her fair face brightening up with pleasure, “for I am very fond of Ruyter. He was so kind to me that time he found me lying near Smit’s house, when my pony ran away and threw me, and I felt so miserable when I heard that his master was cruel and often beat him with a sjambok. Often and often since he ran away—and it must be nearly a year now—I have prayed God that he might come back, and that Jan Smit might become good to him—What have you heard?”Considine’s face wore a troubled look. “I fear,” he said, “the news will distress you, for what I heard was that the three men, driven to desperation by the harsh treatment received from their master, have joined one of the fiercest of these gangs of robbers, called the Bergenaars—the gang led, I believe, by Dragoener. It was Lucas Van Dyk, the hunter, who told me, and he is said to be generally correct in his statements.”Bertha’s nether lip quivered, and she hid her face in her hands for a few moments in silence.“Oh! I’m so sorry—so sorry,” she said at length, looking up. “He was so gentle, so kind. I can’t imagine Ruyter becoming one of those dreadful Bergenaars, about whose ferocious cruelty we hear so much—his nature was so different. I can’t believe it.”“I fear,” rejoined Considine gently, “that it is true. You know it is said that oppression will drive even a wise man mad, and a man will take to anything when he is mad.”“It could not drive a Christian to such a life,” returned the girl sadly. “Oh! Iwishhe had become a Christian when Stephen Orpin spoke to him, but he wouldn’t.”“When did Orpin speak to him, and what did he say?” asked Considine, whose own ideas as to Christianity were by no means fixed or clear.“It was just after that time,” rejoined Bertha, “when Jan Smit had had him tied to a cart-wheel, and flogged so terribly that he could not walk for some days. Orpin happened to arrive at the time with his waggon—you know he has taken to going about as a trader,—and he spoke a great deal to Ruyter about his soul, and about Jesus coming to save men from sin, and enabling them to forgive their enemies; but when Ruyter heard about forgiving his enemies he wouldn’t listen any more. Pointing to his wounds, he said, ‘Do you think I can forgive Jan Smit?’”“I don’t wonder,” said Considine; “it is too much to expect a black fellow smarting under the sjambok to forgive the man who applies it—especially when it is applied unjustly, and with savage cruelty.”Bertha was not gifted with an argumentative spirit. She looked anxiously in the face of her companion, and murmured some broken sentences about the Lord’s Prayer and the Golden Rule, and wound up by saying hesitatingly, “How can we ask forgiveness if we do not forgive?”“You are right, Bertha,” was Considine’s rejoinder, uttered gravely; “but, truly, a man must be more than a man to act on such principles. Think, now of the state of things at the present time with regard to the settlers. The ‘rust,’ as they call that strange disease which has totally ruined the first year’s crop of wheat, has thrown the most of them into difficulties, and in the midst of this almost overwhelming calamity down came the Kafirs on the Albany District, and the Bergenaars, of whom we have just been speaking, not, like men, to fight openly—that were endurable,—but like sly thieves in the dead of night, to carry off sheep and cattle from many of the farms—in some cases even killing the herdsmen. Now, what think you must be the feelings of the settlers towards these Kafirs and runaway robbers?—cantheyforgive?”Bertha didn’t know. She thought their feelings must be very harsh. Diverging from the question, however, she returned to the first regret—namely, that her friend Ruyter had joined the Bergenaars.“Hallo! Considine, hi! where are you?” came the sonorous voice of Conrad Marais in the distance, interrupting the conversation. Next moment the hearty countenance of the farmer followed his voice round the corner of the house.“Come, get your gun, my boy!” he cried in some excitement. “These villains have been down last night and carried off two spans of my best oxen, besides killing and devouring several sheep.”Considine started up at once.“We shall be off in half an hour,” continued the farmer; “Hans is away gathering one or two neighbours, and the people are almost ready.”“Do you accompany them?” asked Considine.“Of course I do. Come along.”The youth required no urging. In a few minutes he was armed and mounted, galloping in company with a score of horsemen—black, brown, and white—towards the cattle-kraals. Here was already assembled by Hans a troop of mounted men, among whom were Jan Smit and his three sons, David, Jacob, and Hendrik, also the hunter Van Dyk. After a brief consultation, in which Van Dyk took a prominent part, they rode off at a smart gallop.We change the scene now to a large and dark cavern up among the wild heights of the Winterberg mountains.It was evening, but the sun had still a considerable distance to descend before finding its bed on the western horizon. A faint gleam of day entered the cave, which was further illuminated by three fires, over which a band of savage-looking dark-skinned men were roasting chops and marrow-bones. Abdul Jemalee the Malay slave and Booby the Bushman were there, assisting at the feast. At the inner end of the cave, seated beside two men, was Ruyter the Hottentot. He was a good deal changed from the rough but careless and jolly fellow whom we first introduced to the reader. There was a stern severity on his countenance, coupled with a touch of sadness when in repose, but when called into action, or even when conversing, the softer feeling vanished, and nothing remained but the lines indicative of a stern settled purpose. Most of the robbers around him had like himself fled from harsh masters, and become hardened in a career of crime. The expression of almost every countenance was vindictive, sensual, coarse. Ruyter’s was not so. Unyielding sternness alone marked his features, which, we have elsewhere remarked, were unusually good for a Hottentot. Being a man of superior power he had become the leader of this robber-band. It was only one of many that existed at that time among the almost inaccessible heights of the mountain-ranges bordering on the colony. His companions recognised the difference between themselves and their captain, and did not love him for it, though they feared him. They also felt that he was irrevocably one of themselves, having imbrued his hands in white man’s blood more than once, and already made his name terrible on that part of the frontier.“They should be here by this time,” said Ruyter, in Dutch, to one of the men at his side. “Why did you send them off before I returned?”He said this with a look of annoyance. The man replied that he had acted according to the best of his judgment and had been particular in impressing the leader of the party that he was not to touch the flocks of old Marais, but to devote himself entirely to those of Jan Smit.To this Ruyter observed with a growl that it was not likely they would attend to such orders if Marais’ herds chanced to be handy, but the robber to whom he spoke only replied with a sly smile, showing that he was of the same opinion.Just then a man rushed into the cave announcing the fact that their comrades were returning with plenty cattle and sheep, but that they were pursued.Instantly the chops and marrow-bones were flung aside, and the robbers, hastily arming, mounted their horses and descended to the rescue.The band of which Ruyter had become leader had existed some time before he joined. It was a detachment from a larger band who acknowledged as their chief a desperado named Dragoener. This Bushman had been in the service of Diederik Muller, but, on being severely flogged by a hot-tempered kinsman of his master, had fled to the mountains, vowing vengeance against all white men. It is thus that one white scoundrel can sometimes not only turn a whole tribe of savages into bitter foes of the white men in general, but can bring discredit on his fellows in the eyes of Christian people at a distance, who have not the means of knowing the true state of the case. Be this as it may, however, Dragoener with his banditti soon took ample revenge on the colonists for the sjamboking he had received.Not long previous to the period of which we write he had been reinforced by Ruyter, Jemalee, Booby, and several other runaway slaves, besides some “wild Bushmen,”—men who had never been in service, and were so called to distinguish them from men who had been caught, like our friend Booby, and “tamed.” A few deserters from the Cape Corps, who possessed fire-arms, had also joined him.Thus reinforced, Dragoener and his lieutenant had become bolder than ever in their depredations. One of his bands had recently carried off a large number of cattle and horses from the Tarka boers, who had called out a commando and gone in pursuit. Driven into a forest ravine, and finding it impossible to retain possession of their booty, the robbers had cut the throats of all the animals, and, scattering into the jungle, made their escape. Another band had frequently annoyed the Scotsmen at Baviaans River.When therefore the band under Ruyter heard of the approach of their comrades with booty, and of the pursuit by colonists, they went to the rescue, somewhat emboldened by recent successes. On meeting their comrades, who were driving the cattle and horses before them in frantic haste, they were told that the pursuers were in strong force, and numbered among them several of the boldest men and best shots on the frontier.There was no time for holding a council of war. Ruyter at once divided his men into two bands. With the larger, well armed, and having two or three deserters with muskets, he crept into the woods to lay an ambush for the enemy. The other band was ordered to continue driving the cattle with utmost speed, and, in the event of being overtaken, to cut the animals’ throats and each man look out for himself.If Ruyter’s men had been as bold and cool as himself they might have checked the pursuit, but when the hunter Van Dyk, who knew their ways, advanced in front of his comrades by a path known to himself, discovered their ambush and sent a bullet through the head of one of their number, they awaited no further orders but roseen masse, fled through the jungle, and made for the mountains.Van Dyk, reloading in hot haste, followed swiftly, but he had not taken three steps when Charlie Considine was at his heels. He had dismounted and followed Van Dyk. The other pursuers made a détour on horseback to cut off the robbers as they passed over some open ground in advance. In attempting this they came on a spot where the ground was strewn with the dead or dying cattle. With a yell of rage they pushed on, but utterly failed, for the bandits had headed in another direction and gained the cliffs, where pursuit on horseback was impossible. Knowing that it would have been equally fruitless to continue the chase on foot, they returned to the point where Van Dyk and Considine had entered the jungle, fully expecting to find them there, as it would have been madness, they thought, for two unsupported men to follow up the flying band. To their surprise they found no one there.“We must follow their spoor, boys,” said Conrad Marais, with an anxious look; “they cannot be far off, but we must not leave them unsupported in the jungle with such a lot of black villains flying about.”Action was at once taken. The most experienced men dismounted and traced the spoor, with the unerring certainty of bloodhounds. But they shouted and searched in vain till night compelled them to desist.Meanwhile Van Dyk and Considine had been captured by the Bergenaars.When Charlie overtook the hunter, as already described, his ardent spirit and strong supple limbs enabled him to outrun his more massive though not less enthusiastic companion. A short run soon convinced the hunter that there was no chance of a clothed white man overtaking a more than half-naked native in a thorny jungle. Indeed, he was already well convinced by former experience of this fact, and had intended to engage in pursuit for only a short time, in order if possible to obtain a flying shot at one or two of the robbers, but his young comrade’s resolute continuance of the chase forced him to hold on longer than he desired.“Stop! stop, young fellow,” he shouted with stentorian voice; “stop, I say! You’ll only waste your breath for no good,” he shouted.But Considine heard him not. He had caught sight of one of the bandits who seemed to be losing strength, and, being himself sound in wind and limb, he recklessly determined to push on.“I’ll leave you to your fate,” roared Van Dyk, “if you don’t stop.”He might as well have roared to a mad buffalo. Considine heeded or heard not.“It won’t do,” growled the hunter in a stern soliloquy as he stopped a moment to tighten his belt. “Well, well, I little thought, Van Dyk, that you’d be brought to such a miserable fix as this, in such a stupid way too. But he mustn’t be left to the Bushmen’s tender mercies.”The hunter’s swart countenance grew darker as he spoke, for he well knew the extremity of danger into which the reckless youth was compelling him to run, but he did not hesitate. Instead, however, of following in the steps of one who was fleeter of foot than himself, he made a détour to the right. In an hour he reached a cliff under which, he knew, from the form of the valley up which the pursuit had been conducted, his young companion must needs pass. The route he had taken was a short cut. He had headed Considine and saw him, a few minutes later, in the gorge below, in full pursuit of the robber.“H’m!” grunted Van Dyk, as he sat down on a rock and examined the priming of his great elephant-gun, “I thought as much! The black scoundrel is just playing with him—decoying the young idiot on till he gets him surrounded by his comrades; but I’ll spoil his game, though it’s like to be the last shot I’ll ever fire.”A low quiet sigh escaped from the hunter as he watched the two men and awaited the proper moment.He was evidently right in his conjecture, for, as they drew near the cliff, the black man looked over his shoulder once or twice and slackened his pace. The next moment he gave a shout which proved to be a signal, for two of the robbers sprang out from the bushes and seized Considine, almost before he had seen them. Vigorously he struggled, and would perhaps have thrown off both, had not the man he had been chasing turned and run to aid the others.Quickly but steadily Van Dyk raised his gun and covered this man. Next moment the muzzle was struck aside, the ball flew harmlessly into the jungle, and the hunter was pinioned, overthrown, and rendered helpless by four of the robbers, who had been watching his motions all the time.Van Dyk was not taken much by surprise. He knew that such danger was probable, and had done his best to avoid it. With that self-command which a life of constant danger in the woods had taught him, he bowed to the inevitable, and quietly submitted to be bound and led away.Mean while Ruyter, for it was he who had been chased, came up in time to assist in securing his victim.“What, Ruyter, is it you?” exclaimed Considine in amazement.When the robber-chief became aware who he had captured, an expression of deep annoyance or regret crossed his face, but it quickly passed into one of stern almost sulky determination, as he ordered the two men, in Dutch, to make the bonds secure. He deigned no reply to the prisoner’s question. He did not even appear to recognise him, but strode on in front, while the two robbers drove the youth up into the rocky fastnesses of the mountains.That night our hero found himself seated in the deepest recesses of a cavern by the side of his comrade Van Dyk. The arms of both were firmly bound behind their backs, but their legs were free, their captors knowing well that a scramble among such giddy and rugged heights without the use of the hands was impossible. In the centre of the cavern sat the robbers round a small fire on which some of them were cooking a few scraps of meat.“A pretty mess you’ve led yourself and me into, young fellow!” said the hunter sternly.“Indeed I have,” replied Considine, with a very penitent air, “and I would give or do anything to undo the mischief.”“Ja—always the same with wild-caps like you,” returned the other,—“ready to give anything when you’ve got nothing, and to do anything when you’re helpless. How much easier it would have been to have given a little heed and shown a little common sense when you had the chance!”There was a touch of bitterness, almost fierceness, in the hunter’s tone, which, knowing the man’s kindly nature, Considine could not quite understand.“Do you know what them reptiles there are saying?” continued Van Dyk after a brief pause.“No, their language is mere gibberish to me.”“They’re discussin’ the best method of puttin’ us out of existence,” said the hunter, with a grim smile. “Some of ’em want to cut our throats at once and have done with it; some would like to torture us first; others are in favour of hangin’, but all agree that we must be killed to prevent our tellin’ the whereabouts of their hiding-place up here,—all except one, the one you gave chase to this afternoon. He advises ’em to let us go, but he don’t seem very earnest about it.”“I think I know the reason of his favouring us,” said Considine, with a look of hope.“Indeed?”“Yes; he once journeyed with me from Capetown to the karroo, and probably he feels a touch of regard for his old travelling companion.”“H’m! I wouldn’t give much for his regard,” growled Van Dyk. “The reed is slender, but it’s the only one we have to lean on now. However, we’ve got a reprieve, for I heard ’em say just now that they’ll delay executing us till to-morrow, after reaching one of their other and safer retreats in the mountains.”The prisoners were put into a smaller cave, close to the large one, that night. Their bonds were made more secure, and, as an additional precaution, their legs were tied. Two men were also appointed to guard the entrance of their prison.About midnight the camp was perfectly still, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the tinkling of a neighbouring rill and the footfall of the sentinels. Van Dyk and Considine were lying uneasily on the bare ground, and thinking of the tragic fate that awaited them on the morrow, when they observed the dim figure of a man approaching from the innermost end of the cavern with a drawn knife in his right hand. Both started up and leant on their elbows; more than this they could not do. They felt some alarm, it is true, but both came to the same conclusion—that it is foolish to cry out before you are hurt.The figure bent over Van Dyk, and whispered in his ear. Next moment the hunter stood on his feet with his limbs free.“You were right, young sir,” he said to Considine as he stooped over him and cut his bonds; “thereisa touch of humanity in the rascally Hottentot after all. Come; he bids us follow him. Knows a secret passage out o’ the cave, no doubt.”The black-bearded huntsman turned as he spoke, and followed the dim figure, which melted into the depths of the cavern as if it had been a spirit. A few minutes’ gliding through darkness tangible, and they found themselves in the open air among thick bushes. Though the night was very dark there was sufficient light to enable Considine to see the glittering of white teeth close to his face, as a voice whispered in broken English—“You’s better tink twice when you try for to chases Tottie next time! Go; Van Dyk, him’s old hand in de bush, will guide you safe.”Before morning Considine was back in Conrad Marais’ parlour, relating his adventures among the Bergenaars with a half-belief that the whole affair was nothing more than a romantic dream.

“So you like the study of French?” said Charlie Considine, as he sat one morning beside Bertha Marais in the porch of her father’s dwelling.

“Yes, very much,” answered the girl. She said no more, but she thought, “Especially when I am taught it by such a kind, painstaking teacher as you.”

“And you like to live in the wild karroo?” asked the youth.

“Of course I do,” was the reply, with a look of surprise.

“Of course. It was a stupid question, Bertha; I did not think at the moment that it ishometo you, and that you have known no other since you were a little child. But to my mind it would be a dull sort of life to live here always.”

“Do you find it so dull?” asked Bertha, with a sad look.

“No, not in the least,” replied the youth, quickly. “HowcouldI, living as I do with such pleasant people, like one of their own kith and kin, hunting with the sons and teaching the daughters—to say nothing of scolding them and playing chess, and singing and riding. Oh no! I’m anything but dull, but I was talkinggenerallyof life in the karroo. If I lived alone, for instance, like poor Horley, or with a disagreeable family like that of Jan Smit—by the way, that reminds me that we have heard news of the three runaways, Ruyter, Jemalee, and Booby.”

“Oh! I’m so glad,” cried Bertha, her fair face brightening up with pleasure, “for I am very fond of Ruyter. He was so kind to me that time he found me lying near Smit’s house, when my pony ran away and threw me, and I felt so miserable when I heard that his master was cruel and often beat him with a sjambok. Often and often since he ran away—and it must be nearly a year now—I have prayed God that he might come back, and that Jan Smit might become good to him—What have you heard?”

Considine’s face wore a troubled look. “I fear,” he said, “the news will distress you, for what I heard was that the three men, driven to desperation by the harsh treatment received from their master, have joined one of the fiercest of these gangs of robbers, called the Bergenaars—the gang led, I believe, by Dragoener. It was Lucas Van Dyk, the hunter, who told me, and he is said to be generally correct in his statements.”

Bertha’s nether lip quivered, and she hid her face in her hands for a few moments in silence.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—so sorry,” she said at length, looking up. “He was so gentle, so kind. I can’t imagine Ruyter becoming one of those dreadful Bergenaars, about whose ferocious cruelty we hear so much—his nature was so different. I can’t believe it.”

“I fear,” rejoined Considine gently, “that it is true. You know it is said that oppression will drive even a wise man mad, and a man will take to anything when he is mad.”

“It could not drive a Christian to such a life,” returned the girl sadly. “Oh! Iwishhe had become a Christian when Stephen Orpin spoke to him, but he wouldn’t.”

“When did Orpin speak to him, and what did he say?” asked Considine, whose own ideas as to Christianity were by no means fixed or clear.

“It was just after that time,” rejoined Bertha, “when Jan Smit had had him tied to a cart-wheel, and flogged so terribly that he could not walk for some days. Orpin happened to arrive at the time with his waggon—you know he has taken to going about as a trader,—and he spoke a great deal to Ruyter about his soul, and about Jesus coming to save men from sin, and enabling them to forgive their enemies; but when Ruyter heard about forgiving his enemies he wouldn’t listen any more. Pointing to his wounds, he said, ‘Do you think I can forgive Jan Smit?’”

“I don’t wonder,” said Considine; “it is too much to expect a black fellow smarting under the sjambok to forgive the man who applies it—especially when it is applied unjustly, and with savage cruelty.”

Bertha was not gifted with an argumentative spirit. She looked anxiously in the face of her companion, and murmured some broken sentences about the Lord’s Prayer and the Golden Rule, and wound up by saying hesitatingly, “How can we ask forgiveness if we do not forgive?”

“You are right, Bertha,” was Considine’s rejoinder, uttered gravely; “but, truly, a man must be more than a man to act on such principles. Think, now of the state of things at the present time with regard to the settlers. The ‘rust,’ as they call that strange disease which has totally ruined the first year’s crop of wheat, has thrown the most of them into difficulties, and in the midst of this almost overwhelming calamity down came the Kafirs on the Albany District, and the Bergenaars, of whom we have just been speaking, not, like men, to fight openly—that were endurable,—but like sly thieves in the dead of night, to carry off sheep and cattle from many of the farms—in some cases even killing the herdsmen. Now, what think you must be the feelings of the settlers towards these Kafirs and runaway robbers?—cantheyforgive?”

Bertha didn’t know. She thought their feelings must be very harsh. Diverging from the question, however, she returned to the first regret—namely, that her friend Ruyter had joined the Bergenaars.

“Hallo! Considine, hi! where are you?” came the sonorous voice of Conrad Marais in the distance, interrupting the conversation. Next moment the hearty countenance of the farmer followed his voice round the corner of the house.

“Come, get your gun, my boy!” he cried in some excitement. “These villains have been down last night and carried off two spans of my best oxen, besides killing and devouring several sheep.”

Considine started up at once.

“We shall be off in half an hour,” continued the farmer; “Hans is away gathering one or two neighbours, and the people are almost ready.”

“Do you accompany them?” asked Considine.

“Of course I do. Come along.”

The youth required no urging. In a few minutes he was armed and mounted, galloping in company with a score of horsemen—black, brown, and white—towards the cattle-kraals. Here was already assembled by Hans a troop of mounted men, among whom were Jan Smit and his three sons, David, Jacob, and Hendrik, also the hunter Van Dyk. After a brief consultation, in which Van Dyk took a prominent part, they rode off at a smart gallop.

We change the scene now to a large and dark cavern up among the wild heights of the Winterberg mountains.

It was evening, but the sun had still a considerable distance to descend before finding its bed on the western horizon. A faint gleam of day entered the cave, which was further illuminated by three fires, over which a band of savage-looking dark-skinned men were roasting chops and marrow-bones. Abdul Jemalee the Malay slave and Booby the Bushman were there, assisting at the feast. At the inner end of the cave, seated beside two men, was Ruyter the Hottentot. He was a good deal changed from the rough but careless and jolly fellow whom we first introduced to the reader. There was a stern severity on his countenance, coupled with a touch of sadness when in repose, but when called into action, or even when conversing, the softer feeling vanished, and nothing remained but the lines indicative of a stern settled purpose. Most of the robbers around him had like himself fled from harsh masters, and become hardened in a career of crime. The expression of almost every countenance was vindictive, sensual, coarse. Ruyter’s was not so. Unyielding sternness alone marked his features, which, we have elsewhere remarked, were unusually good for a Hottentot. Being a man of superior power he had become the leader of this robber-band. It was only one of many that existed at that time among the almost inaccessible heights of the mountain-ranges bordering on the colony. His companions recognised the difference between themselves and their captain, and did not love him for it, though they feared him. They also felt that he was irrevocably one of themselves, having imbrued his hands in white man’s blood more than once, and already made his name terrible on that part of the frontier.

“They should be here by this time,” said Ruyter, in Dutch, to one of the men at his side. “Why did you send them off before I returned?”

He said this with a look of annoyance. The man replied that he had acted according to the best of his judgment and had been particular in impressing the leader of the party that he was not to touch the flocks of old Marais, but to devote himself entirely to those of Jan Smit.

To this Ruyter observed with a growl that it was not likely they would attend to such orders if Marais’ herds chanced to be handy, but the robber to whom he spoke only replied with a sly smile, showing that he was of the same opinion.

Just then a man rushed into the cave announcing the fact that their comrades were returning with plenty cattle and sheep, but that they were pursued.

Instantly the chops and marrow-bones were flung aside, and the robbers, hastily arming, mounted their horses and descended to the rescue.

The band of which Ruyter had become leader had existed some time before he joined. It was a detachment from a larger band who acknowledged as their chief a desperado named Dragoener. This Bushman had been in the service of Diederik Muller, but, on being severely flogged by a hot-tempered kinsman of his master, had fled to the mountains, vowing vengeance against all white men. It is thus that one white scoundrel can sometimes not only turn a whole tribe of savages into bitter foes of the white men in general, but can bring discredit on his fellows in the eyes of Christian people at a distance, who have not the means of knowing the true state of the case. Be this as it may, however, Dragoener with his banditti soon took ample revenge on the colonists for the sjamboking he had received.

Not long previous to the period of which we write he had been reinforced by Ruyter, Jemalee, Booby, and several other runaway slaves, besides some “wild Bushmen,”—men who had never been in service, and were so called to distinguish them from men who had been caught, like our friend Booby, and “tamed.” A few deserters from the Cape Corps, who possessed fire-arms, had also joined him.

Thus reinforced, Dragoener and his lieutenant had become bolder than ever in their depredations. One of his bands had recently carried off a large number of cattle and horses from the Tarka boers, who had called out a commando and gone in pursuit. Driven into a forest ravine, and finding it impossible to retain possession of their booty, the robbers had cut the throats of all the animals, and, scattering into the jungle, made their escape. Another band had frequently annoyed the Scotsmen at Baviaans River.

When therefore the band under Ruyter heard of the approach of their comrades with booty, and of the pursuit by colonists, they went to the rescue, somewhat emboldened by recent successes. On meeting their comrades, who were driving the cattle and horses before them in frantic haste, they were told that the pursuers were in strong force, and numbered among them several of the boldest men and best shots on the frontier.

There was no time for holding a council of war. Ruyter at once divided his men into two bands. With the larger, well armed, and having two or three deserters with muskets, he crept into the woods to lay an ambush for the enemy. The other band was ordered to continue driving the cattle with utmost speed, and, in the event of being overtaken, to cut the animals’ throats and each man look out for himself.

If Ruyter’s men had been as bold and cool as himself they might have checked the pursuit, but when the hunter Van Dyk, who knew their ways, advanced in front of his comrades by a path known to himself, discovered their ambush and sent a bullet through the head of one of their number, they awaited no further orders but roseen masse, fled through the jungle, and made for the mountains.

Van Dyk, reloading in hot haste, followed swiftly, but he had not taken three steps when Charlie Considine was at his heels. He had dismounted and followed Van Dyk. The other pursuers made a détour on horseback to cut off the robbers as they passed over some open ground in advance. In attempting this they came on a spot where the ground was strewn with the dead or dying cattle. With a yell of rage they pushed on, but utterly failed, for the bandits had headed in another direction and gained the cliffs, where pursuit on horseback was impossible. Knowing that it would have been equally fruitless to continue the chase on foot, they returned to the point where Van Dyk and Considine had entered the jungle, fully expecting to find them there, as it would have been madness, they thought, for two unsupported men to follow up the flying band. To their surprise they found no one there.

“We must follow their spoor, boys,” said Conrad Marais, with an anxious look; “they cannot be far off, but we must not leave them unsupported in the jungle with such a lot of black villains flying about.”

Action was at once taken. The most experienced men dismounted and traced the spoor, with the unerring certainty of bloodhounds. But they shouted and searched in vain till night compelled them to desist.

Meanwhile Van Dyk and Considine had been captured by the Bergenaars.

When Charlie overtook the hunter, as already described, his ardent spirit and strong supple limbs enabled him to outrun his more massive though not less enthusiastic companion. A short run soon convinced the hunter that there was no chance of a clothed white man overtaking a more than half-naked native in a thorny jungle. Indeed, he was already well convinced by former experience of this fact, and had intended to engage in pursuit for only a short time, in order if possible to obtain a flying shot at one or two of the robbers, but his young comrade’s resolute continuance of the chase forced him to hold on longer than he desired.

“Stop! stop, young fellow,” he shouted with stentorian voice; “stop, I say! You’ll only waste your breath for no good,” he shouted.

But Considine heard him not. He had caught sight of one of the bandits who seemed to be losing strength, and, being himself sound in wind and limb, he recklessly determined to push on.

“I’ll leave you to your fate,” roared Van Dyk, “if you don’t stop.”

He might as well have roared to a mad buffalo. Considine heeded or heard not.

“It won’t do,” growled the hunter in a stern soliloquy as he stopped a moment to tighten his belt. “Well, well, I little thought, Van Dyk, that you’d be brought to such a miserable fix as this, in such a stupid way too. But he mustn’t be left to the Bushmen’s tender mercies.”

The hunter’s swart countenance grew darker as he spoke, for he well knew the extremity of danger into which the reckless youth was compelling him to run, but he did not hesitate. Instead, however, of following in the steps of one who was fleeter of foot than himself, he made a détour to the right. In an hour he reached a cliff under which, he knew, from the form of the valley up which the pursuit had been conducted, his young companion must needs pass. The route he had taken was a short cut. He had headed Considine and saw him, a few minutes later, in the gorge below, in full pursuit of the robber.

“H’m!” grunted Van Dyk, as he sat down on a rock and examined the priming of his great elephant-gun, “I thought as much! The black scoundrel is just playing with him—decoying the young idiot on till he gets him surrounded by his comrades; but I’ll spoil his game, though it’s like to be the last shot I’ll ever fire.”

A low quiet sigh escaped from the hunter as he watched the two men and awaited the proper moment.

He was evidently right in his conjecture, for, as they drew near the cliff, the black man looked over his shoulder once or twice and slackened his pace. The next moment he gave a shout which proved to be a signal, for two of the robbers sprang out from the bushes and seized Considine, almost before he had seen them. Vigorously he struggled, and would perhaps have thrown off both, had not the man he had been chasing turned and run to aid the others.

Quickly but steadily Van Dyk raised his gun and covered this man. Next moment the muzzle was struck aside, the ball flew harmlessly into the jungle, and the hunter was pinioned, overthrown, and rendered helpless by four of the robbers, who had been watching his motions all the time.

Van Dyk was not taken much by surprise. He knew that such danger was probable, and had done his best to avoid it. With that self-command which a life of constant danger in the woods had taught him, he bowed to the inevitable, and quietly submitted to be bound and led away.

Mean while Ruyter, for it was he who had been chased, came up in time to assist in securing his victim.

“What, Ruyter, is it you?” exclaimed Considine in amazement.

When the robber-chief became aware who he had captured, an expression of deep annoyance or regret crossed his face, but it quickly passed into one of stern almost sulky determination, as he ordered the two men, in Dutch, to make the bonds secure. He deigned no reply to the prisoner’s question. He did not even appear to recognise him, but strode on in front, while the two robbers drove the youth up into the rocky fastnesses of the mountains.

That night our hero found himself seated in the deepest recesses of a cavern by the side of his comrade Van Dyk. The arms of both were firmly bound behind their backs, but their legs were free, their captors knowing well that a scramble among such giddy and rugged heights without the use of the hands was impossible. In the centre of the cavern sat the robbers round a small fire on which some of them were cooking a few scraps of meat.

“A pretty mess you’ve led yourself and me into, young fellow!” said the hunter sternly.

“Indeed I have,” replied Considine, with a very penitent air, “and I would give or do anything to undo the mischief.”

“Ja—always the same with wild-caps like you,” returned the other,—“ready to give anything when you’ve got nothing, and to do anything when you’re helpless. How much easier it would have been to have given a little heed and shown a little common sense when you had the chance!”

There was a touch of bitterness, almost fierceness, in the hunter’s tone, which, knowing the man’s kindly nature, Considine could not quite understand.

“Do you know what them reptiles there are saying?” continued Van Dyk after a brief pause.

“No, their language is mere gibberish to me.”

“They’re discussin’ the best method of puttin’ us out of existence,” said the hunter, with a grim smile. “Some of ’em want to cut our throats at once and have done with it; some would like to torture us first; others are in favour of hangin’, but all agree that we must be killed to prevent our tellin’ the whereabouts of their hiding-place up here,—all except one, the one you gave chase to this afternoon. He advises ’em to let us go, but he don’t seem very earnest about it.”

“I think I know the reason of his favouring us,” said Considine, with a look of hope.

“Indeed?”

“Yes; he once journeyed with me from Capetown to the karroo, and probably he feels a touch of regard for his old travelling companion.”

“H’m! I wouldn’t give much for his regard,” growled Van Dyk. “The reed is slender, but it’s the only one we have to lean on now. However, we’ve got a reprieve, for I heard ’em say just now that they’ll delay executing us till to-morrow, after reaching one of their other and safer retreats in the mountains.”

The prisoners were put into a smaller cave, close to the large one, that night. Their bonds were made more secure, and, as an additional precaution, their legs were tied. Two men were also appointed to guard the entrance of their prison.

About midnight the camp was perfectly still, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the tinkling of a neighbouring rill and the footfall of the sentinels. Van Dyk and Considine were lying uneasily on the bare ground, and thinking of the tragic fate that awaited them on the morrow, when they observed the dim figure of a man approaching from the innermost end of the cavern with a drawn knife in his right hand. Both started up and leant on their elbows; more than this they could not do. They felt some alarm, it is true, but both came to the same conclusion—that it is foolish to cry out before you are hurt.

The figure bent over Van Dyk, and whispered in his ear. Next moment the hunter stood on his feet with his limbs free.

“You were right, young sir,” he said to Considine as he stooped over him and cut his bonds; “thereisa touch of humanity in the rascally Hottentot after all. Come; he bids us follow him. Knows a secret passage out o’ the cave, no doubt.”

The black-bearded huntsman turned as he spoke, and followed the dim figure, which melted into the depths of the cavern as if it had been a spirit. A few minutes’ gliding through darkness tangible, and they found themselves in the open air among thick bushes. Though the night was very dark there was sufficient light to enable Considine to see the glittering of white teeth close to his face, as a voice whispered in broken English—“You’s better tink twice when you try for to chases Tottie next time! Go; Van Dyk, him’s old hand in de bush, will guide you safe.”

Before morning Considine was back in Conrad Marais’ parlour, relating his adventures among the Bergenaars with a half-belief that the whole affair was nothing more than a romantic dream.

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