“Yes, Quatermain, I think you are quite right,” said Sir Henry.  “Precisely the same considerations have forced Good and myself to hold our tongues.  We did not wish to be bracketed with—­well, with other famous travellers.”

There was a murmur of disappointment at these announcements.

“I believe you are all hoaxing us,” said the young lady next Mr. Quatermain, rather sharply.

“Believe me,” answered the old hunter, with a quaint courtesy and a little bow of his grizzled head; “though I have lived all my life in the wilderness, and amongst savages, I have neither the heart, nor the want of manners, to wish to deceive one so lovely.”

Whereat the young lady, who was pretty, looked appeased.

“This is very dreadful,” I broke in.  “We ask for bread and you give us a stone, Mr. Quatermain.  The least that you can do is to tell us the story of the tusks opposite and the buffalo horns underneath.  We won’t let you off with less.”

“I am but a poor story-teller,” put in the old hunter, “but if you will forgive my want of skill, I shall be happy to tell you, not the story of the tusks, for that is part of the history of our journey to King Solomon’s Mines, but that of the buffalo horns beneath them, which is now ten years old.”

“Bravo, Quatermain!” said Sir Henry.  “We shall all be delighted.  Fire away!  Fill up your glass first.”

The little man did as he was bid, took a sip of claret, and began:—­“About ten years ago I was hunting up in the far interior of Africa, at a place called Gatgarra, not a great way from the Chobe River.  I had with me four native servants, namely, a driver and voorlooper, or leader, who were natives of Matabeleland, a Hottentot named Hans, who had once been the slave of a Transvaal Boer, and a Zulu hunter, who for five years had accompanied me upon my trips, and whose name was Mashune.  Now near Gatgarra I found a fine piece of healthy, park-like country, where the grass was very good, considering the time of year; and here I made a little camp or head-quarter settlement, from whence I went expeditions on all sides in search of game, especially elephant.  My luck, however, was bad; I got but little ivory.  I was therefore very glad when some natives brought me news that a large herd of elephants were feeding in a valley about thirty miles away.  At first I thought of trekking down to the valley, waggon and all, but gave up the idea on hearing that it was infested with the deadly ‘tsetse’ fly, which is certain death to all animals, except men, donkeys, and wild game.  So I reluctantly determined to leave the waggon in the charge of the Matabele leader and driver, and to start on a trip into the thorn country, accompanied only by the Hottentot Hans, and Mashune.