In the end I got him to the tents by aid of the Kaffirs and a blanket, and there made an examination.  He was scratched all over, but the only serious wounds were a bite through the muscles of the left upper arm and three deep cuts in the right thigh just where it joins the body, caused by a stroke of the leopard’s claws.  I gave him a dose of laudanum to send him to sleep and dressed these hurts as best I could.  For three days he went on quite well.  Indeed, the wounds had begun to heal healthily when suddenly some kind of fever took him, caused, I suppose, by the poison of the leopard’s fangs or claws.

Oh! what a terrible week was that which followed!  He became delirious, raving continually of all sorts of things, and especially of Miss Margaret Manners.  I kept up his strength as well as was possible with soup made from the flesh of game, mixed with a little brandy which I had.  But he grew weaker and weaker.  Also the wounds in the thigh began to suppurate.

The Kaffirs whom we had with us were of little use in such a case, so that all the nursing fell on me.  Luckily, beyond a shaking, the leopard had done me no hurt, and I was very strong in those days.  Still the lack of rest told on me, since I dared not sleep for more than half an hour or so at a time.  At length came a morning when I was quite worn out.  There lay poor Scroope turning and muttering in the little tent, and there I sat by his side, wondering whether he would live to see another dawn, or if he did, for how long I should be able to tend him.  I called to a Kaffir to bring me my coffee, and just was I was lifting the pannikin to my lips with a shaking hand, help came.

It arrived in a very strange shape.  In front of our camp were two thorn trees, and from between these trees, the rays from the rising sun falling full on him, I saw a curious figure walking towards me in a slow, purposeful fashion.  It was that of a man of uncertain age, for though the beard and long hair were white, the face was comparatively youthful, save for the wrinkles round the mouth, and the dark eyes were full of life and vigour.  Tattered garments, surmounted by a torn kaross or skin rug, hung awkwardly upon his tall, thin frame.  On his feet were veld-schoen of untanned hide, on his back a battered tin case was strapped, and in his bony, nervous hand he clasped a long staff made of the black and white wood the natives call unzimbiti, on the top of which was fixed a butterfly net.  Behind him were some Kaffirs who carried cases on their heads.

I knew him at once, since we had met before, especially on a certain occasion in Zululand, when he calmly appeared out of the ranks of a hostile native impi.  He was one of the strangest characters in all South Africa.  Evidently a gentleman in the true sense of the word, none knew his history (although I know it now, and a strange story it is), except that he was an American by birth, for in this matter at times his speech betrayed him.  Also he was a doctor by profession, and to judge from his extraordinary skill, one who must have seen much practice both in medicine and in surgery.  For the rest he had means, though where they came from was a mystery, and for many years past had wandered about South and Eastern Africa, collecting butterflies and flowers.