TWO DIANAS IN SOMALILAND 133 
I wearily returned to camp, and having fully ex- 
plained to Cecily the extent of the disaster, lay on my 
bed, face down, for ages. The death of the poor 
hunter could not, strictly speaking, be ascribed to me. 
I might so easily have been the victim myself, but the 
horror of it all and the pity of it bothered me as I 
suppose it would not have done a real sportsman. 
For, in retailing it now to my uncle, he pooh-poohs 
my trouble and says it is the fortune of big game 
hunting. “ You hunt big game, big game hunt you,” 
as the case may be. 
Cecily tried in her loving way to comfort me, and 
the cook made me a soporific in the shape of tea, 
and the kettle had really boiled. I was very glad to 
see Clarence back before the light gave out, and hear 
that the Baron had been buried deeply and far out of 
the reach of hungry jackals and hyaenas. 
I spent a fearful night of regrets and recriminations. 
When pain is acute it is as well to let it bite deep, 
because the reaction is greater in proportion to the 
pain. I’m not sure that the old adage about crying 
over spilt milk isn’t a fraud. It does a woman good to 
cry, so I wept and wept. 
Next morning I thoroughly overhauled my prize so 
dearly bought. The spoil must have taken some carry- 
ing. The head, which I kept entire — I mean without 
despoiling it of horns — was not so large as I somehow 
expected from an animal of his bulk. Still, it was big 
enough in all conscience. The skin appeared like 
some freshly peeled fruit, and was of great thickness* 
though it afterwards shrank in the drying a little. 
