ht
(she started in the afternoon) in a belt of Mopani forest. At earliest
dawn, as soon as she can see spoor, she is away again steadily trudging.
It is weary work. The white glare of the sun upon the light calcareous
sand, through which she ploughs all morning, is trying enough; yet
infinitely more distressing is it when she crosses the four miles of a
vast salt pan. The blinding glare thrown up from the flat white surface
of the pan makes even the seasoned eyes of a Bushwoman throb and smart,
and the heat is terrible.

There is a gleam of satisfaction even upon the salt pan, however.
Nakeesa sees plainly enough by the spoor that the giraffe cow is in sore
trouble. Here she has reeled, there spurned the smooth white sand as
she starts off again at speed, galled into frenzy by the poison that now
runs riot through her veins. And ever, like bloodhound upon a trail,
run the footprints of Sinikwe side by side with the giraffe spoor.
Nakeesa sees that he has put on his hide sandals, so burning is the
glittering white sand. So plain is the tale to her eyes that Nakeesa
knows now surely enough that to-morrow by noon she will rest by the dead
carcase.

In the hottest hour of afternoon, as she mounts with a sense of relief
the further edge of the great salt pan, Nakeesa sees a figure coming
towards her. Who can it be? Not Sinikwe, certainly. In five minutes
her old lover, Kwaneet, stands before her. They squat them down beneath
a solitary Mopani tree, whose bifid, butterfly-like leaves (now parched
and shrivelled), turned ever edgewise to the sun, afford them the
scantiest shade, and exchange greeting. Kwaneet takes a little--a very
little--of the precious snuff from the cartridge case at his neck, and
offers his friend a pinch from the palm of his hand. With a gratitude
almost too great for words Nakeesa takes and enjoys the precious stuff.
What a relief! No dainty cup of afternoon tea was ever so grateful to
fashionable dame as that pinch of snuff to the weary Masarwa woman. Her
eyes sparkle a little, she plucks up energy again.

"So, Kwaneet!" she says. "Have you had water? Whence come you?"

"There is no water," replies the Masarwa. "I am eaten up by the sun.
Two mornings agone I drank a little. I go to Makwa, where there may be
yet a little. And I shall there hunt for hartebeest-skins against the
coming of Khama's headmen. What news have you, Nakeesa? I saw the
print of Sinikwe's sandal yonder, fol