“Whereaway, Dick, on such a night as this?” said I. “You’ll find the rheumatism a worse foe than the Kaffirs, unless you keep more regular hours.” Dick was looking unusually serious, almost frightened, one would say, if one did not know the man. “Had to go,” he replied--“had to go. One of Madison’s cattle was seen straying down Sasassa Valley, and of course none of our blacks would go down _that_ Valley at night; and if we had waited till morning, the brute would have been in Kaffirland.” “Why wouldn’t they go down Sasassa Valley at night?” asked Tom. “Kaffirs, I suppose,” said I. “Ghosts,” said Dick. We both laughed. “I suppose they didn’t give such a matter-of-fact fellow as you a sight of their charms?” said Tom, from the bunk. “Yes,” said Dick, seriously--“yes; I saw what the niggers talk about; and I promise you, lads, I don’t want ever to see it again.” Tom sat up in his bed. “Nonsense, Dick; you’re joking, man! Come, tell us all about it. The legend first, and your own experience afterward. Pass him over the bottle, Jack.” “Well, as to the legend,” began Dick--“it seems that the niggers have had it handed down to them that that Sasassa Valley is haunted by a frightful fiend. Hunters and wanderers passing down the defile have seen its glowing eyes under the shadows of the cliff; and the story goes that whoever has chanced to encounter that baleful glare has had his after-life blighted by the malignant power of this creature. Whether that be true or not,” continued Dick, ruefully, “I may have an opportunity of judging for myself.” “Go on, Dick--go on,” cried Tom. “Let’s hear about what you saw.”