en, the youngest son, whom I had met up-country, now
lived with his parents.

By the second evening, as we sat at supper, old Cornelis and I had
become fast friends. The old man knew from his son that I had shot
pretty successfully in Mashonaland; and, in the old Dutch fashion, his
simple soul went out at once to a hunter--especially to one who had done
Franz a kindly turn. It was a warm evening in November. Vrouw Van
Vuuren--a broad-faced, white-haired, portly old dame, still keen-eyed,
brisk and sharp with her native servants--sat at the head of the table,
endued with a clean print gown and her best black silk apron in honour
of my coming. In front of her stood the great coffee urn. Her
capacious feet, enveloped in soft _velschoens_, rested, spite of the
warmth of the African evening, upon one of those curious chafing
stools--a footstool filled with hot embers--so common in Boer houses.
Franz sat at one side of the table, I at the other. Old Cornelis was at
the top. I see him now in memory as he stood reverently pouring forth
one of those long Dutch prayers, without which no good Boer will begin
his meal. He was a magnificent old fellow, far better looking than the
average run of Free State or Transvaal Boers. Cornelis Van Vuuren stood
a good six feet in his _velschoens_, and, although now seventy years of
age, was still erect and strong as an ancient oak. His thick masses of
white hair--not too well trimmed--and his snowy beard well set off his
strong, massive features. And the old man's bright blue eye--merry,
alert, and penetrating--showed that the fire of life still burned strong
within that great old frame. Well might he be called by his fellows,
"Sterk Cornelis" (strong Cornelis). I had often heard of the old man's
reputation far up in the interior--of his clear courage and unflagging
resource; for Cornelis had been in many a tight place, whether in
hunting or in native wars. Few men, even among the great English
hunters, had been more reliable at need, whether facing an infuriated
bull elephant, or standing up to a wounded and snarling lion--two of the
most dangerous foes, I take it, that a man may expect to confront in
Africa.

As we sat at the evening meal, the pretty Cape swallows, in their
handsome livery of blue-black and rufous, flitted in and out of the
chamber, through door or open window, hawking incessantly at the plague
of flies, or sitting sometimes upon the top of the open door, chee