22 DAYS AND NIGHTS BY THE DESERT. 



Of hunting stories, as may be imagined, Cigar 

 had an inexhaustible supply, so I will endeavour to 

 narrate one of them in -which we both played a part ; 

 but, on paper, his individual share must fall far 

 short of the graphic and intense force with which 

 he told it to me when sitting round the brilliant, 

 yet fitful, camp-fire on a dark night, the narration 

 not unfrequently interrupted by the deep, resonant 

 voice of the lion, the wail of the sneaking, cowardly 

 hysena, the shrill whistle of the quagga, or the 

 merry, tittering, laugh-like call of the jackal. So I 

 will recount it in my own language. 



One such a night I can well remember. We had 

 been travelling all day through the dense thorn 

 bush that lies between Pilan -and the north side of 

 the Crocodile river ; but, an hour before sundown, 

 we came out of the prickly scrub into a most magni- 

 ficent stretch of veldt, here and there broken by 

 small clumps of trees. Zebras, hartebeeste, and 

 sassabis were abundant in every direction, a well- 

 known indication that the lord of the forest was not 

 far distant. Towards the river, on the low grounds, 

 innumerable cranes fed in thousands, intermixed with 

 lovely rose-coloured flamingoes, while aloft floated, 

 on almost motionless pinions, uncountable vultures. 



It was one of those spectacles alone to be seen 

 in Africa, alike charming to the eyes of the natu- 

 ralist, lover of nature, and the devotee of field sports. 



Our horses had passed a hard day, for we had 



