“He won’t make it much further,” said the inspector.  “Better turn him loose and see what can be done with three.”

“I have a better plan,” said our other companion.  Stopping the cart, he unharnessed the animal, passed the rope through its mouth, vaulted on its back, and rode to a farmhouse some distance away.  Presently he returned, bringing another horse, which he had obtained in exchange for our exhausted animal.

Thus reinforced, we pushed on, arriving at Senekal at ten that night.  The only hotel was crowded; we were glad to sleep on the parlour floor.  After breakfast the next morning we continued our journey, passing group after group of burghers on their way home.

It was truly painful to see these poor fellows struggling along, their horses scarce able to walk and themselves in a condition not much better.  At noon we outspanned at some water-pools, where several of these groups were also resting.  We entered into conversation with them, and they told us that they had retired earlier than the others on account of the weakness of their animals; that one of their number had been taken ill, and could ride no further, even if his horse could carry him, which was doubtful.

We spoke to the sick man, who was lying in the shade of a tree.  He was quite a youth, and evidently of a better stamp than his companions.

“If only I could reach a certain farm about five miles further on,” he sighed, “I think I should manage.”

“Take my seat,” said I, “and I’ll ride your nag.”

“I must tell you,” he objected, “that the poor beast is quite exhausted.  It would take hours to get him there.”

“Never mind, I’ll start now, and you can follow on with the cart when our horses have had a feed.”

Our business admitted of no retard, so I meant to get a good start in order not to delay my companions.

I mounted the nag and shouted “Get up!”

He stumbled forward a few steps and stood stock still.  I pricked him with the spurs, he moved on a little further and halted again.  By dint of spurring, striking, and shouting, he at last broke into a slow trot, wearily dragging his hoofs, but before long he stopped once more.

I dismounted and tried to lead him, but he would not budge.  Then I tried driving him on ahead, but as soon as I got behind him he turned out of the road, first to the right, then to the left.  Of all heart-breaking experiences this was the worst.  I could not leave the animal to die by the wayside; the farm was only a few miles further on, where he would find water, food, and rest.  I mounted again, shouted, cracked my sjambok—­blows he could no longer feel—­flourished my arms, jerked my body up and down in the saddle, and finally got him into a walk—­but such a walk! slow, mechanical, every step an effort.

When we finally reached the farmhouse I sprang down and quickly threw the saddle off.  No sooner did the faithful animal feel itself released from its service than it sank to the ground, utterly exhausted.  I myself was not much better off, after my exertions in the blazing sun.  If you are fond of horses, never try to repeat my experiment.  Straining the last ounce out of your mount is too much like mule-driving, and that is the most soul-killing occupation on earth, as any Afrikander can testify.