By the time we had pegged the spot it was sunset, and a debatable point whether we should camp there and ride early next day, or try to cross the mountains by moonlight. We had eaten our last scrap of food at midday, and there was no vegetation for the horses to nibble, so we decided on the latter, though we knew we were taking risks, for Ezaak seemed none too sure of the path, and crossing pathless mountains by moonlight is scarcely a picnic. Rummaging in our depleted saddle-bags, we found a last pinch of tea, plentifully mixed with tobacco dust, and with it we brewed a kettleful of the most obnoxious fluid I have ever tasted. The water was brak (alkaline) and thick and slimy, and we had no sugar, but we got down a hot beakerful each, and started on one of the coldest rides I have ever experienced. For on the bare, sun-blistered uplands of Namaqualand there is practically no intermediate stage between intense heat and intense cold, and less than an hour after sunset my teeth were chattering and my hands so numbed I could scarcely hold the reins. Naturally, the higher we climbed, the colder it became, and I soon regretted that I had not decided to wait hungry, and do that ride in the warm sunshine. I had nothing on but a khaki shirt and pants, of the thinnest--just enough to keep the sun from flaming me--and though I had a blanket strapped on the horse, it was useless trying to wrap that about me in such a scramble as we were in for. It soon became evident that Ezaak was relying on his sense of direction to bring us to the waggon, and occasionally he was absolutely at fault. In and out among the solemn peaks we scrambled, here plunging into dark ravines, where it was impossible to do more than grope one’s way, then emerging into a blaze of white moonlight that showed every pebble in the path as clear as noonday. Once or twice, in the darker places, we had to retrace our steps, as we found the way barred by rock or precipice, and often the only warning that we were on dangerous heights was the crash of a dislodged stone or boulder falling into the depths below. But “Ou Ezaak” still scrambled on, till, after passing over two distinct ranges, we found ourselves again amongst thick vegetation, and here our experiences became even more variegated. For most of the bush was of the _wachteen-beitje_ variety, full of hooked thorns, and as the little nags wriggled through it, it ripped and tore skin and clothing from us in the most impartial manner. It blew great guns too, and but for sheer shame I would have called a halt, lighted a fire, and waited for morning. However, Ezaak was now fairly in his stride, and after an interminable time, and when I had resigned myself to being utterly lost, we suddenly plunged down a dark ravine, and saw a fire twinkling below us. It was the waggon, right enough. We had been scrambling for seven hours. In the morning we found that a dozen or more Hottentots had pitched their mat _pondhoeks_ close to the waggon.