esire of the keenest hunter
nightly slaked their thirst at these mysterious streams.

And yet for more than half of the year that dream-like and translucent
haze which spread like a pearl tinted veil over the romance-filled
woodland tract, was a veritable shadow of death. In the earlier days
men bent on sport, on prospecting or on adventure, pure and simple,
climbed light-heartedly down the steep mountain stairs at all times and
seasons little reckoning that it would have saved them much needless
misery if they had, instead, leaped headlong from the towering cliffs.
For from November to May, fever stalked abroad over the plains and
among the foothills, seeking human prey, and hardly any who ventured
during these months into the dominion of the fever king escaped his
blighting grip. The few who managed to save their lives were doomed to
months or even years of misery.

This could only be learnt by bitter experience.

In the autumn of 1873, five and thirty men descended to the Low
Country; of these I think twenty seven died. During the following year
we took warning, and none, with the exception of the Alexandre party,
attempted exploration before June. Consequently there were not, so far
as I remember, any fatalities; from June to October the Low Country was
healthy enough. But the memory of other people's experience fades
quickly; in 1875 some of us again undertook the trip too early. Six
started, one of these happened to be my "mate," who did not go down as
far as the others, and so escaped. The others were Thomas Shires, Meek,
Schwiegardt, McKinnon, and myself. I started on the 5th of April, at
least two months too early, the others about the same time. Of the
five, the three first mentioned died where they took the infection.
McKinnon and I managed to get back; we reached Mac Mac on the same day,
as it happened, traveling by different paths. Poor McKinnon, who was of
robust, powerful physique, died about a month afterwards. I, whose
build was extremely light, had a comparatively mild attack, but I felt
its effect for years. Of the men who recovered, the great majority were
of the lean kind. It was, in fact, proverbial that the less flesh one
had on one's bones, the better were the chances of recovery.

One extremely sad case was that of a man named Gray, whom I knew well.
He went down with fever at the poisonous Mattol Marsh, about thirty
miles from Delagoa Bay, in 1873. His mate went on to Lourenco Marques
to ge