At last, about an hour before dawn, I fell asleep, and was awakened at sunrise by a scuffling noise behind me. I turned round, on murder intent, expecting to find a belated hyæna, and beheld, ten yards away, a grand old lion slowly dragging the carcase under the shade of a tree. Still half asleep, I reached for the 10-bore, and killed him with a shot high on the shoulder, and went back to breakfast, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. I consider sitting up over a bait an unpardonable form of murder, if there is the remotest possibility of shooting a beast in fair hunt. A few days later, when on the way to our camp in the jungle, I overshot the track in some long grass, and spent a terrible day in consequence. I could not be certain that I had crossed it, or if I had crossed, of not doing so again if I returned. The only safe course was to follow some definite direction. I judged the whereabouts of the junction of the Gorongoza plain and the Urema, and went straight ahead through thick and thin. Some of the bush was terrible, and the only way to pass was by climbing along the boughs of the trees above. The experience gave me a clear idea of how people lose themselves irretrievably, as I found it needed a tremendous effort of will to compel myself to go on and on. The temptation to try another direction is almost invincible, and nothing is easier than to lose one’s nerves on these occasions. However, I at length emerged, torn and bleeding from head to foot, and throwing myself into the river, regardless of crocodiles, lay there, drinking in the water through every pore. Much refreshed, but with the unpleasant prospect of spending the night there, I climbed up on to the path that runs along the river-bank, and saw to my amazement the spoor of two horses; this I followed up; and half an hour later, as it was getting too dark to see, I caught the glimmer of a fire in the distance. Here I found Mr. H. S. H. Cavendish of Lake Rudolph fame, and Mr. Dodson of the British Museum, who had just arrived on a shooting trip.