The Lioness of Zoutpansburgh.

It was a glorious April morning, and the scene was pleasant enough on the banks of the Limpolulo, not far from a small kraal of native huts called Origstadt, where a tributary stream runs into the river. A light subaltern’s tent, with its single pole, was pitched under a clump of spreading trees; close to it stood a waggon, with a hooped tilt and strong canvas covering, while fourteen powerful oxen were browsing near. Behind the tent two horses were picketed. Seven men were variously employed, some cutting wood for the fire, which blazed up merrily under a tree, some cooking, and others mending the heavy harness, in readiness for the morrow’s march. On a branch near, hung the carcase of a fat eland, from which animal a strongly built Hottentot was employed cutting a large slice with his long sharp knife. In front of the tent, with a couple of Madras cowrie baskets at his feet, busily engaged sponging out a rifle, Captain Hughes was seated. There was not much water in the river, though there had been trouble enough in crossing it the day before with the waggon, on account of the huge boulders of stone rolled down during the rainy season. A rich plain stretched away towards the mountains, which were those of the Drakenburgh range, and the course of the river, as it wound here and there, could be easily marked until it was lost in the thick woods near the hills. Unlike the vast dried up plains of India, this African land was undulating, dotted with clumps of trees and covered with grass, which here and there near the river grew to a great height. A conical hill, called the Silver Mountain, rose about ten miles away, and beyond the Drakenburgh range lay the country ruled by the powerful native chief Mozelkatse. In the trees by the water side the parrots were screaming and chattering, and some beautiful squirrels were playing among the branches or chasing each other in the sunshine.

A deep dead silence reigned around, broken only by the murmur of the water, the occasional scream of the parrots, and the hum of the mosquitoes, which were so numerous on the banks of the Limpolulo as to be nearly unendurable even to the practised Indian. A more peaceful scene could not be imagined, when suddenly the silence was broken, and a long peculiar melancholy cry came floating on the breeze.

Starting up, his rifle in two pieces in his hand, the soldier listened eagerly. The men had evidently heard it too, for their chattering ceased; the tall, powerful Kaffir, who had been cutting up the eland, pausing with the knife between his teeth, a large lump of meat in either hand, and his head bent on one side, in an attitude of deep attention, a perfect bronze statue. An interval of silence intervened, and then once more the same prolonged, tremulous, far distant cry came floating as it were down on the breeze.

“No Zulu cry that, master,” said Luji, dropping, as he spoke, the knife from between his teeth, and his frame relaxing from its stiffened position of intense listening. Again the tremulous cry came, sounding so far away that even in that clear air it seemed as though the final notes of the word coooi, long dwelt upon, alone reached the river bank.

“I have it, Luji!” suddenly exclaimed Hughes. “Put that venison down, get your rifle, and follow me.” The Kaffir obeyed, dropping the two huge lumps of meat into a cauldron, which, half filled with mealies, was destined to make a stew for the twelve o’clock meal, and then deliberately washing his hands in the water, he went to the waggon, disappeared under the tilt for a moment, and soon stood by his master’s side, armed with a heavy rifle.

“What master think the cry?” he asked.

“I think it is the Australian bush cry, which I never heard before, but which I have read of; and if I am right there must be a European, not able to find our camp.”

Luji, as has already been said, was a Hottentot, and a true type of his class. He was not brave to rashness, but was a merry, careless fellow, ever ready for anything, and reckless and improvident to a degree seldom equalled. He was no beauty, his woolly hair surmounting a yellow-black face, ornamented by a mouth large enough to suffice for even his enormous appetite. High cheek-bones, the elongated eyes peculiar to his race set widely apart, a broad powerful chest, and sinewy limbs, complete the portrait.

He was faithful, very idle, and a fair shot. Merry as a child when pleased, but if wronged or annoyed, passionate and revengeful. He spoke the language of the Zulu Kaffirs, had a fair smattering of English, and was a good cook.

Over-readiness with his long knife was a fault in him, and had already given much trouble. The rest of the men were Kaffirs and Bechuanas, one of them named Noti being a good shot, and a well-known hunter; and all were picked men, models of manly beauty cast in bronze.

Restless, active, and unused to control, the whole band were difficult to manage, but far above the average stamp of their class,—waggon, horses, and men having been carefully selected by the Government Agent on the Zulu frontier, one who had enjoyed a long experience in the country.

So long as the way lay across the plain, all was simple enough, and the two followed a sort of rough trampled path made by the antelope. Now dipping into a deep hollow where the grass grew luxuriantly, now topping a gentle rise, and pausing to listen for the direction whence came the guiding cry, they neared the forest-land at the foot of the mountain range of the Drakenburgh. Troops of eland crossed their path from time to time, but their minds being pre-occupied with the thought of some danger abroad, these were not molested. At last, just after having mounted the slope of one of the undulating rises, they entered upon a green plain, where, feeding about a hundred yards away, were a herd of antelope, such as Captain Hughes had not yet met with. They were of a grey colour, while a narrow white line, taking its origin between the shoulders, ran to the base of the tail, following exactly the vertebral column.

From this line seven or