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 the day lingered. I was filled to my moist eyes with the almost sacred beauty of sense and association that clad the landscape.

"Does ’unger produce ’alluciations ?" said Pyecroft in a whisper. "Because I’ve just seen a sacred ibis walkin’ arm in arm with a British cock-pheasant."

"What are you panickin’ at?" said Hinchcliffe. "I’ve been seein’ zebra for the last two minutes, but I ’aven’t complained."

He pointed behind us, and I beheld a superb painted zebra (Burchell’s, I think), following our track with palpitating nostrils. The car stopped, and it fled away.

There was a little pond in front of us from which rose a dome of irregular sticks crowned with a blunt-muzzled beast that sat upon its haunches.

"Is it catching?" said Pyecroft.

"Yes. I’m seeing beaver," I replied.

"It is here!" said Kysh, with the air and gesture of Captain Nemo, and half turned.

"No—no—no ! For ’Eaven’s sake—not ’ere!" Our guest gasped like a sea-bathed child, as four efficient hands swung him far out-board on to the turf. The car ran back noiselessly down the slope.

"Look! Look! It’s sorcery!" cried Hinchcliffe.

There was a report like a pistol-shot as the beaver dived from the roof of his lodge, but we watched our guest. He was on his knees, praying to kangaroos. Yea, in his bowler hat he kneeled