The big bull gazed round, seeking an assailant; but we were well under cover. Suddenly he turned, exposing his shoulder. Two rifles spoke simultaneously, but he did not go down. Once more we fired together, and again he was struck, but still kept his legs. Yet again we fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing him settle down on his hind quarters. To our great delight, the herd then moved off, and we were able to walk cautiously up to within ten feet of the big bull, as he sat propped up on his fore legs, bellowing defiance. Such a spectacle of impotent rage I had never previously witnessed. He made most herculean efforts to rise, but being unable to do so, he rolled his blood-shot eyes, while foam dripped from his massive jaws. He was the very picture of helpless though majestic rage. I took pity on the noble beast, and planted a Martini bullet in his neck, smashing the spine, thereby finishing him for good and all. We carefully examined him, and, an instance of the splendid vitality of an old bull buffalo, found all our six bullets planted in his left shoulder, so close together that they could have been covered with an ordinary-sized plate. Three were mine and three were El Hakim’s. We could easily distinguish them, as, though our rifles were of the same bore (·450), those from El Hakim’s Holland and Holland were clean-cut and symmetrical, while my heavier Martini bullets, propelled by half the charge of powder used by El Hakim, made a more ragged hole. We tossed for the head, and I won. Four men were required to carry it into camp, when it was severed from the body. The horns were magnificently proportioned, and in perfect condition. The horns of my first beast also were quite up to the average. As by this time it was long after midday (our stalk having lasted three hours), we determined to camp near the edge of the swamp. We dubbed it “Buffalo Camp,” and decided to stop there the next day in order that the men might cut up the dead buffaloes and dry their meat into biltong. We left their entrails where the beasts had been shot, with men to protect them from the vultures till sundown, in the hope that during the night they might attract lions. Jumbi reported in the afternoon that two of the porters had deserted on the road, and, worst of all, they were carrying, one a load of food, and the other a load of the Venetian beads which were to buy us food from the Rendili. We sent Jumbi with six men back to endeavour to apprehend them. Our camp was situated only about half a mile or so from the grave of Dr. Kolb, whom Mr. Neumann met at M’thara. In reading Neumann’s book[7] a pathetic paragraph (in the light of after events) met my eye; it ran thus:—