We ride for an hour or so with coats tightly buttoned up, blue noses, and frozen fingers—­for the hoar-frost still lingers on the ground—­but the air is delightfully exhilarating, and we know that we shall not have to complain of the cold long.  By degrees the sun makes itself felt, and we discard first one wrap and then another, till by ten o’clock even light overcoats are not required.  And now it is time to “off-saddle” and breakfast.  The carriers straggle in more or less in the order they left, but they gladly “dump” down their loads, and before many minutes the fire is burning and the breakfast frizzling.  After breakfast comes the midday rest of two or three hours, beguiled by some ancient newspapers or some dust-begrimed book.  It is remarkable that, when far away from home, the date of a newspaper is of little import, while none are voted dull, and one finds oneself reading the most obscure publications, and vaguely wondering how or why they reached this distant land.  At two o’clock marching orders come again.  This is the hot trek, but there is generally a cool breeze to temper the fierce rays of the winter’s sun; and when that sun gets low down on to the horizon, and becomes a crimson ball, tingeing the world with its rosy hue, we look about for our evening resting-place.  During our journey to Kalomo, as well as on our southward route a month later, we enjoyed the light of a glorious moon, whose assistance to the traveller cannot be exaggerated when the short twilight is remembered.  By the moon we frequently made our camp, by the moon we dined.  Those were never-to-be-forgotten evenings, spent on that lonely veldt all bathed in silver light.  We also had excitements—­much lions’ spoor on the roads by day, many scares of lions round the camps by night, when the danger is that the horses may be taken while the camp is asleep.  Every evening our animals were put into a “skerm,” or high palisade, constructed of branches by the ubiquitous carriers with marvellous rapidity.

One dark night before the moon had risen, just as we had finished dinner and were sitting round the fire listening to thrilling stories of sport and adventure, a terrific noise suddenly disturbed our peaceful circle—­a noise which proceeded from a dark mass of thick bush not 200 yards away, and recalled one’s childish recollections of “feeding-time” at the Zoo.  Not one, but five or six lions, might have been thus near to us from the volume of growls and snarls, varied by short deep grunts, which broke the intense stillness of the night in this weird fashion.  Each man rushed for his rifle, but it was too dark to shoot, and gradually the noise died away.  The natives opined it was a slight difference of opinion between some wolves and a lion, which animals, curiously enough, very often hunt in company, the lion doing the killing, and the wolf prowling along behind and picking up the scraps.  It was but an incident, but it served as an uncanny reminder of the many eyes