than
to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with
brush, and the masses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden
thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to
a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle
near him, he lay down. Minutes passed, the breaking of the bushes came
near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close
to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which
formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the
noises in the brush, and the cries passed on. Grey daylight came
streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their
flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the
branches.

The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and
nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of
the bank, he glanced around. "All seems quiet. If I could only reach
the river," he muttered. "My mouth is dry and parched with thirst."

Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah,
and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.

It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi
with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded
shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his
thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal
consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees
were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on
the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars
were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing
slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank
reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.

Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening
attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before
the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna;
and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.

"It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks," he said, speaking
aloud, unconsciously. "I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help."

Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they
were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against
the stream, a boat drew c