I occupied, that was just what he could not do, although he knelt down to facilitate his operations.  On came the snapping tip like a great open-mouthed snake; it closed upon my hat, which vanished.  Again it was thrust down, and a scream of rage was bellowed through it within four inches of my head.  Now it seemed to elongate itself.  Oh, heavens! now it had me by the hair, which, luckily for myself, was not very long.  Then it was my turn to scream, for next instant half a square inch of hair was dragged from my scalp by the roots.  I was being plucked alive, as I have seen cruel Kaffir kitchen boys pluck a fowl.

The elephant, however, disappointed with these moderate results, changed his tactics.  He wound his trunk round the fallen tree and lifted.  The tree stirred, but fortunately the broken branches embedded in the spongy soil, and some roots, which still held, prevented it from being turned over, though he lifted it so much that, had it occurred to him, he could now easily have drawn me out with his trunk.  Again he hoisted with all his mighty strength, and I saw that the tree was coming, and roared aloud for help.  Some shots were fired close by in answer, but if they hit the bull, their only effect was to stir his energies to more active life.  In another few seconds my shelter would be torn away, and I should be done for.  A cold perspiration burst out over me as I realized that I was lost.  Then of a sudden I remembered that I had a pistol in my belt, which I often used for despatching wounded game.  It was loaded and capped.  By this time the tree was lifted so much that I could easily get my hand down to my middle and draw the pistol from its case.  I drew and cocked it.  Now the tree was coming over, and there, within three feet of my head, was the great brown trunk of the elephant.  I placed the muzzle of the pistol within an inch of it and fired.  The result was instantaneous.  Down sunk the tree again, giving one of my legs a considerable squeeze, and next instant I heard a crashing sound.  The elephant had bolted.

By this time, what between fright and struggling, I was pretty well tired.  I cannot remember how I got from under the fallen tree, or indeed anything, until I found myself sitting on the ground drinking some peach brandy from a flask, and old Indaba-zimbi opposite to me nodding his white lock sagely, while he fired off moral reflections on the narrowness of my escape, and my unwisdom in not having taken his advice to go on foot.  That reminded me of my horse—­I got up and went to look at it.  It was quite dead, the blow of the elephant’s trunk had fallen on the saddle, breaking the framework, and rendering it useless.  I reflected that in another two seconds it would have fallen on me.  Then I called to Indaba-zimbi and asked which way the elephants had gone.

“There!” he said, pointing down the gully, “and we had better go after them, Macumazahn.  We have had the bad luck, now for the good.”