them for a little while to share the rest of the coffee with Hans, rose
from his haunches with a grunt, and departed to fetch them. A minute or
two later Hans ceased from his occupation of packing up the things, and
said in a low voice:

"_Kek!_ Baas"--that is "Look!"

Following the line of his outstretched hand, Benita and her father
perceived, not more than a hundred yards away from them, a great troop
of wilderbeeste, or gnu, travelling along a ridge, and pausing now and
again to indulge in those extraordinary gambols which cause the Boers to
declare that these brutes have a worm in their brains.

"Give me my rifle, Hans," said Mr. Clifford. "We want meat."

By the time that the Westley-Richards was drawn from its case and
loaded, only one buck remained, for, having caught sight of the waggon,
it turned to stare at it suspiciously. Mr. Clifford aimed and fired.
Down went the buck, then springing to its feet again, vanished behind
the ridge. Mr. Clifford shook his head sadly.

"I don't often do that sort of thing, my dear, but the light is still
very bad. Still, he's hit. What do you say? Shall we get on the horses
and catch him? A canter would warm you."

Benita, who was tender-hearted, reflected that it would be kinder to
put the poor creature out of its pain, and nodded her head. Five minutes
later they were cantering together up the rise, Mr. Clifford having
first ordered the waggon to trek on till they rejoined it, and slipped a
packet of cartridges into his pocket. Beyond the rise lay a wide stretch
of marshy ground, bordered by another rise half a mile or more away,
from the crest of which--for now the air was clear enough--they saw the
wounded bull standing. On they went after him, but before they could
come within shot, he had moved forward once more, for he was only
lightly hurt in the flank, and guessed whence his trouble came.

Again and again did he retreat as they drew near, until at length, just
as Mr. Clifford was about to dismount to risk a long shot, the beast
took to its heels in earnest.

"Come on," he said; "don't let's be beat," for by this time the hunter
was alive in him.

So off they went at a gallop, up slopes and down slopes that reminded
Benita of the Bay of Biscay in a storm, across half-dried vleis that in
the wet season were ponds, through stony ground and patches of ant-bear
holes in which they nearly came to grief. For five miles at least the
chase went on, since at the end