over there, and I saw another in that direction--yes, there they are
again. Ah! now they are gone--but, look there, baas, see you those two
pairs? No, no, do not shoot yet; wait until they come quite close;
then--shoot and kill. Where is that _schelm_, Jantje, and why is he not
feeding the fires? If they are not kept up we shall yet lose half our
oxen!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE MYSTERIOUS WHITE RACE.

Two more lions fell to Dick's rifle that night, before the brutes were
finally scared out of their projected attack upon the camp; but it was
not until the first signs of dawn were paling the eastern sky, and all
the multitudinous sounds in the neighbourhood of the water-hole had long
subsided into complete silence, that the watchers felt at liberty to
cease their vigil and snatch an hour or two of much-needed rest.
Meanwhile, Grosvenor remained completely sunk in the lethargic sleep
which had resulted from the saturation of his system with alcohol.

Although the blacks had been up and working hard all night, they were
astir again very soon after sunrise; and the first thing they did was to
go out and bring into camp the carcasses of the three dead lions, in
order that Dick's eyes might be gladdened by the sight of them upon his
emergence from the tent. Then, while Jantje and 'Nkuku loosed the oxen
and drove them to the water-hole, Ramoo Samee prepared a couple of cups
of strong black coffee, which Mafuta carried into the tent; and as the
Kafir looped back the flaps of the entrance, giving admission to a flood
of brilliant sunlight and a brisk gush of cool, invigorating air, Dick
stirred uneasily in his hammock, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and exclaimed,
sleepily:

"Hillo, Mafuta, surely it is not yet time to turn out, is it? I don't
seem to have been asleep more than half a minute." Then his glance fell
upon Grosvenor's hammock, and memory instantly returned to him; he
sprang to his feet and laid his finger upon his patient's pulse, and as
he did so Grosvenor uttered a low groan and, opening his eyes, looked
dazedly up into the eyes of the friend who bent over him.

"Hullo, Dick," he murmured, "that you? I say, old chap," endeavouring
to rise, "what the dickens is the matter with me? I feel like a--a--
boiled owl; my head is aching as though it would split, and my mouth is
as dry as a limekiln. And--look here, old man, why are you holding me
down in my hammock like this? Am I not to get up to-day, eh, or