It requires a very good rifle to kill an African elephant.  A No. 8 bore with a Frazer’s shell, planted in the temple, I believe, would drop an elephant each shot.  Faulkner makes some extraordinary statements, about walking up in front of an elephant and planting a bullet in his forehead, killing him instantly.  The tale, however, is so incredible that I would prefer not to believe it; especially when he states that the imprint of the muzzle of his rifle was on the elephant’s trunk.  African travellers—­ especially those with a taste for the chase—­are too fond of relating that which borders on the incredible for ordinary men to believe them.  Such stories must be taken with a large grain of salt, for the sake of the amusement they afford to readers at home.  In future, whenever I hear a man state how he broke the back of an antelope at 600 yards, I shall incline to believe a cipher had been added by a slip of the pen, or attribute it to a typographical error, for this is almost an impossible feat in an African forest.  It may be done once, but it could never be done twice running.  An antelope makes a very small target at 600 yards distance; but, then, all these stories belong by right divine to the chasseur who travels to Africa for the sake only of sport.

On the 13th we continued our march across several ridges; and the series of ascents and descents revealed to us valleys and mountains never before explored streams; rushing northward, swollen by the rains, and grand primeval forests, in whose twilight shade no white man ever walked before.

On the 14th the same scenes were witnessed—­an unbroken series of longitudinal ridges, parallel one with another and with Lake Tanganika.  Eastward the faces of these ridges present abrupt scarps and terraces, rising from deep valleys, while the western declivities have gradual slopes.  These are the peculiar features of Ukawendi, the eastern watershed of the Tanganika.

In one of these valleys on this day we came across a colony of reddish-bearded monkeys, whose howls, or bellowing, rang amongst the cliffs as they discovered the caravan.  I was not able to approach them, for they scrambled up trees and barked their defiance at me, then bounded to the ground as I still persisted in advancing; and they would have soon drawn me in pursuit if I had not suddenly remembered that my absence was halting the Expedition.

About noon we sighted our Magdala—­the grand towering mount whose upright frowning mass had attracted our eyes, as it lifted itself from above the plain in all its grandeur, when we were hurrying along the great ridge of Rusawa towards the “Crocodile” River.  We recognised the old, mystic beauty of the tree-clad plain around it.  Then it was bleached, and a filmy haze covered it lovingly; now it was vivid greenness.  Every vegetable, plant, herb and tree, had sprung into quick life—­the effect of the rains.  Rivers that ran not in those hot summer days now fumed and rushed impetuously between thick belts of mighty timber, brawling hoarsely in the glades.  We crossed many of these streams, all of which are feeders of the Rugufu.