“I am a hunter,” he said; “I am named ’Eater-up-of-Elephants’;” and he rolled his eyes, looking about for someone to contradict him, which nobody did.  Indeed, his “praiser,” a thin, tired-looking person, whose voice was worn out with his previous exertions, repeated in a feeble way: 

“Yes, Black One, ‘Eater-up-of-Elephants’ is your name; ‘Lifted-up-by-Buffalo’ is your name.”

“Be silent, idiot,” roared Umbezi.  “As I said, I am a hunter; I have wounded the wild beast that subsequently dared to assault me. [As a matter of fact, it was I, Allan Quatermain, who had wounded it.] I would make it bite the dust, for it cannot be far away.  Let us follow it.”

He glared round him, whereon his obsequious people, or one of them, echoed: 

“Yes, by all means let us follow it, ‘Eater-up-of-Elephants.’  Macumazahn, the clever white man, will show us how, for where is the buffalo that he fears!”

Of course, after this there was nothing else to be done, so, having summoned the scratched Scowl, who seemed to have no heart in the business, we started on the spoor of the herd, which was as easy to track as a wagon road.

“Never mind, Baas,” said Scowl, “they are two hours’ march off by now.”

“I hope so,” I answered; but, as it happened, luck was against me, for before we had covered half a mile some over-zealous fellow struck a blood spoor.

I marched on that spoor for twenty minutes or so, till we came to a patch of bush that sloped downwards to a river-bed.  Right to this river I followed it, till I reached the edge of a big pool that was still full of water, although the river itself had gone dry.  Here I stood looking at the spoor and consulting with Saduko as to whether the beast could have swum the pool, for the tracks that went to its very verge had become confused and uncertain.  Suddenly our doubts were ended, since out of a patch of dense bush which we had passed—­for it had played the common trick of doubling back on its own spoor—­appeared the buffalo, a huge bull, that halted on three legs, my bullet having broken one of its thighs.  As to its identity there was no doubt, since on, or rather from, its right horn, which was cleft apart at the top, hung the remains of Umbezi’s moocha.

“Oh, beware, Inkoosi,” cried Saduko in a frightened voice. "It is the buffalo with the cleft horn!"

I heard him; I saw.  All the scene in the hut of Zikali rose before me—­the old dwarf, his words, everything.  I lifted my rifle and fired at the charging beast, but knew that the bullet glanced from its skull.  I threw down the gun—­for the buffalo was right on me—­and tried to jump aside.

Almost I did so, but that cleft horn, to which hung the remains of Umbezi’s moocha, scooped me up and hurled me off the river bank backwards and sideways into the deep pool below.  As I departed thither I saw Saduko spring forward and heard a shot fired that caused the bull to collapse for a moment.  Then with a slow, sliding motion it followed me into the pool.