Just as he realized this a small, upright form came forward from the left side and stood in front of him.  Had the form, which was a man, only been in front at first, Bulon would have seen it; but he could not—­like all buffaloes—­see very well unless things were in a straight line before him.

The moment Bulon caught sight of his enemy he made a mad rush, and as he plunged violently he splashed and covered the traveler with thick mud, which nearly blinded him.  Unfortunately, Bulon was in a soft spot, and the more he wallowed the deeper he sank in the mud.  But he made one grand struggle, and, getting a slight grasp, he floundered up and made another wild dash at his enemy.  It would, indeed, have gone hard with the enemy if just behind him there had not grown one of those peculiarly thick thorn bushes which grow so plentifully in South Africa—­a bush which has long, thick thorns like big needles.

As Bulon plunged madly at his enemy, the man darted to one side, and Bulon crashed into the bush, running the cruel thorns into his nose and eyes, and tumbling head over heels with the impetus.  He gathered himself up, nearly mad with pain—­for the cruel thorns had completely blinded him—­and in his agony tore round and round—­forgetting his enemy—­forgetting the soft, boggy spot—­forgetting the herd—­ forgetting everything except the awful anguish and bewildering darkness.

It went hard with Bulon after this, for he was in a sad plight.  He had spent the greater part of his strength in the fight; the wallowing in the soft mire had exhausted him; he had a burning, raging pain in his shoulder caused by the bullet fired by his human enemy, while the pain in his poor, blinded eyes and his sensitive nose took nearly all his remaining strength.  He felt he could not keep up his wild career much longer, but he kept on for a time, only stopping occasionally to rub his poor nose and eyes in the soft, wet ground—­an action which only added to his misery, for the harder he rubbed the deeper he drove in the thorns which pierced and lacerated him, poisoning his blood and sowing the seeds of death.

Meanwhile, the buffaloes at the sound of that peculiar “bang” stopped chewing their cuds instantly, and in one of their wild, excitable fits started off in a mad rush, males, mothers and calves all huddled together.  In an almost incredible time the buffaloes were out of sight, except a few unfortunate mothers and little ones who, having once stumbled, lost their lives by being trampled to death by the others.  This was the reason that Bulon, with all his bellowings of rage, pain and distress, received no answer to his cries, and could find no one of his fellow-creatures to give him comfort.

The hunter had such a narrow escape from the sudden onrush of the buffalo that he deemed it wise—­not realizing that the animal had been blinded—­to retreat.  Had he only known the piteous plight in which poor Bulon was, it would have been an easy matter to have put another bullet into him, and so ended his life and sufferings.