“Kek! Baas”—­that is “Look!”

Following the line of his outstretched hand, Benita and her father perceived, not more than a hundred yards away from them, a great troop of wilderbeeste, or gnu, travelling along a ridge, and pausing now and again to indulge in those extraordinary gambols which cause the Boers to declare that these brutes have a worm in their brains.

“Give me my rifle, Hans,” said Mr. Clifford.  “We want meat.”

By the time that the Westley-Richards was drawn from its case and loaded, only one buck remained, for, having caught sight of the waggon, it turned to stare at it suspiciously.  Mr. Clifford aimed and fired.  Down went the buck, then springing to its feet again, vanished behind the ridge.  Mr. Clifford shook his head sadly.

“I don’t often do that sort of thing, my dear, but the light is still very bad.  Still, he’s hit.  What do you say?  Shall we get on the horses and catch him?  A canter would warm you.”

Benita, who was tender-hearted, reflected that it would be kinder to put the poor creature out of its pain, and nodded her head.  Five minutes later they were cantering together up the rise, Mr. Clifford having first ordered the waggon to trek on till they rejoined it, and slipped a packet of cartridges into his pocket.  Beyond the rise lay a wide stretch of marshy ground, bordered by another rise half a mile or more away, from the crest of which—­for now the air was clear enough—­they saw the wounded bull standing.  On they went after him, but before they could come within shot, he had moved forward once more, for he was only lightly hurt in the flank, and guessed whence his trouble came.

Again and again did he retreat as they drew near, until at length, just as Mr. Clifford was about to dismount to risk a long shot, the beast took to its heels in earnest.

“Come on,” he said; “don’t let’s be beat,” for by this time the hunter was alive in him.

So off they went at a gallop, up slopes and down slopes that reminded Benita of the Bay of Biscay in a storm, across half-dried vleis that in the wet season were ponds, through stony ground and patches of ant-bear holes in which they nearly came to grief.  For five miles at least the chase went on, since at the end of winter the wilderbeeste was thin and could gallop well, notwithstanding its injury, faster even than their good horses.  At last, rising a ridge, they found whither it was going, for suddenly they were in the midst of vast herds of game, thousands and tens of thousands of them stretching as far as the eye could reach.

It was a wondrous sight that now, alas! will be seen no more—­at any rate upon the Transvaal veld; wilderbeeste, blesbok, springbok, in countless multitudes, and amongst them a few quagga and hartebeeste.  With a sound like that of thunder, their flashing myriad hoofs casting up clouds of dust from the fire-blackened veld, the great herds separated at the appearance of their enemy, man.  This way and that they went in groups and long brown lines, leaving the wounded and exhausted wilderbeeste behind them, so that presently he was the sole tenant of that great cup of land.