Compton measured the distance from the rock to the claw-marks.

“Fifteen feet!  By Jove! it was a narrow squeak.  I would have yelled like fits.”

“I did yell.”

Muata pointed to the ground.

“Blood spoor, eh?  You did hit him.  Put the jackal on the track, chief,” said Mr. Hume.

The jackal took one sniff at the ground, stared sharply around, then peered up into his master’s face.

“Search,” said the chief, in his own tongue.  “Follow the great one, O little friend.  The trail is laid; the great one has sought out a moist spot; he lies angry and sore in the shade.  Search and find.”

The jackal looked intently into the chiefs face, sniffed at the ground, ran forward a few yards, stopped, sniffed again with lifted mane at a spot where the grass was pressed down, threw up his head with eyes half closed, then ran down towards the river, stopping on the bank to look back.

“That is where he joined his mate.  There is the spoor on the sand going and returning.  That is the round pad of the lion; just note and compare it with the pads of the lioness over there.  Just look, and read the writing.”

The two boys looked at the marks in the sand, and followed them down to the moist ground on the edge of the water.

“They entered the river side by side,” they said.

“That is plain; but the writing tells another story.  See, this footprint here is faint—­very faint, eh?  He did not rest his weight on his left fore-foot.  Why, eh?”

“Because the bullet struck the left front leg,” they both said.

“They learn the signs, Muata.  They will be hunters yet.  Tell them if the lion be hard hit, chief.”

Muata waded into the river, which reached to his armpits at the deepest, and bent over something on the further shore.  They undressed, and waded through to him.

“Congela,” he said, pointing to the bank.  “The great ones came out here.  The great, great one was not sore hurt, for he came right through, using all his feet to swim.”

“It will be luck, then, if we find him,” said the hunter.

“Bad luck,” muttered Compton to Venning, with a grin.

“Forward, little friend!” cried Muata.  “Search and find.  It is a great hunt this day.  We follow the hunter of all things.”

They slipped into their clothes and followed at a trot after the jackal, which ran straight on, its bushy tail held low.  It followed the river down for a mile or so, then stopped, looking back at its master.

Mr. Hume and the chief stood silently inspecting the hard ground, then they walked on a few yards.  The same thoughts seemed to come to each, as the boys judged from their actions; for from the ground their eyes ranged over the land, then were turned skywards.  Muata pointed a finger at a ringed crow flying with bent head.

“They killed,” said Mr. Hume.

“Oh!!  They killed.”