arrested by the
extreme thinness of his hands. Recovering himself, he turned to the
twenty-first psalm, but had only read the first verse when the book
dropt from his fingers, and he again fell sound asleep.

This was the turning-point in his illness. He began to mend a little,
but so slowly, that he almost lost heart once or twice; and felt
convinced that if he did not make an attempt to get out of the unhealthy
region, he should never regain strength.

Acting on this belief, he left the native village on foot, carrying
nothing but his rifle, which seemed to him, in his weak condition, to be
as heavy as a small cannon. Mafuta went on in advance, heavily laden
with the blankets, a small tent, provisions, ammunition, etcetera,
necessary for the journey.

At first Tom could scarcely walk a mile without sitting down several
times to rest, on which occasions Mafuta endeavoured to cheer him up by
threatening to leave him to his fate! This was a somewhat singular mode
of stimulating, but he deemed it the wisest course, and acted on it.
When Tom lay down under the shade of a tree, thoroughly knocked up, the
Caffre would bid him farewell and go away; but in a short time he would
return and urge him to make another attempt!

Thus Tom Brown travelled, day after day, under the broiling sun. During
that period--which he afterwards described as the most dreadful of his
life--fever and ague reduced him to a state of excessive weakness. In
fact it was a battle between the dire disease and that powerful
constitution for which the Brown family is celebrated. For a
considerable time it appeared very doubtful how the battle would end.

One morning Tom was awakened by his faithful attendant to resume his
weary journey. He got up with a heavy sigh, and almost fell down again
from weakness.

"I think, Mafuta," said Tom gravely, "that I'm pretty nearly used up.
You'll have to leave me, I fear, and make the best of your way out of
this wretched country alone."

"Dis a fuss-rate kontry," said the Caffre quietly.

"Ah, true, Mafuta, I forgot for a moment that it is your native land.
However, I am bound to admit that it is a first-rate country for sport--
also for killing Englishmen. I don't feel able to move a step."

Tom sat down as he said this, and, uttering a sort of groan, leaned his
back against a tree.

"W'at, yous no' go fadder?"

"No," said Tom, with some asperity, for he felt too much exhausted to
speak.

"Ber