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 from the disease that broke out among his horses; his own saddle-horse had not escaped the infection, and he was anxious to know whether I could give him any advice that might be serviceable to him.

We left Rennicke’s farm in time to arrive about dusk at “Gildenhuis Place,” a farm which I have previously mentioned as lying on the southern slopes of the Maquassie Hills.

À propos of these Maquassie Hills, I may mention that on my third journey into the interior, two years subsequently to the present, I met an elephant-hunter, whose home was on their northern ridges; he was a brave fellow, and told me of an episode in his career which I may be allowed to repeat, in association with my own experiences in the neighbourhood.

His name was Weinhold Schmitt, and he had spent his youth on one of the farms at the mouth of the Maquassie River. The northern passes of the hills were being terribly ravaged by four lions, that none of the Boers would venture to attack. At last, one day, a farmer’s son, having gone out to fetch home three of his horses, came riding back in great excitement, with the intelligence that he had found their carcasses all lying half-eaten in the grass. The footmarks all around left no doubt that the lions had been the perpetrators of the deed.

The announcement stirred the Boers to action, and they determined to make up a party to hunt them down. Accordingly the farmer and six others, of whom Schmitt was one, mounted their horses;