his house in Glen Lynedock,
where I spent a night, they showed me an assagai, or Kafir spear, which
had been bent into the form of a half-moon against his, (Mr Pringle's),
stomach! It happened thus:

He was out fighting with the rest of the farmers in the war of 1851, and
one day was attacked by Kafirs, one of whom flung his assagai at him
with tremendous force. Mr Pringle had just fired his rifle, and was
reloading when the assagai struck him. It was arrested, however, in its
deadly flight by his belt and bullet-pouch. The savage rushed forward,
intending to finish his adversary by a thrust from a short spear, but
old Pringle guarded the thrust with one hand, while, with the other, he
drew a pistol and shot the Kafir through the heart. At that moment
another savage ran at him, but a comrade of Pringle suddenly came on the
scene and the savage turned to fly. The comrade took aim at him.

"Be cool, and take him low," said Pringle, undoing his belt to examine
his wound.

The comrade fired, and the savage fell.

"Are you killed?" asked the comrade, turning to Pringle and glancing at
the bent assagai.

"I don't know," replied the other, with a serious look, as he thrust his
hand under his waist-belt, "there's no hole that I can find, anyhow."

The hand, when withdrawn, was covered with blood, but it was found on
examination that the wound was slight, thanks to the providential
interposition of the thick bullet-pouch. The old gentleman is now
naturally fond of showing the weapon which had so nearly proved fatal.

Advancing into the Baviaans River District we passed through many places
of historic interest, and scenery that must have reminded the Scottish
settlers of the rugged glens to which they had bidden farewell for ever.

Among other places, Hobson pointed out a small cavern, high up on the
cliffs, which was the scene of a cruel affray not many years before the
arrival of the Scotch settlers in the district.

As it illustrates the wild frontier life of those times, and bears on
the subject of the grievances of early colonists, I shall relate it.

There was a Dutch Boer, a farmer named Bezuidenhout, who, in the year
1815, dwelt in the lonely and wild recesses of the Baviaans River
District. He seems to have been a passionate, headstrong man. The
Dutch Boers were generally honest, sterling men, though at that time
very ignorant, being far removed from the means of instruction. But the
Dutchmen, not le