The jungle seemed alive with the crowd of orange red,
the herd was now on every side, as I pressed the great bull before me.
Oh for an open plain! I was helpless to attack, and it required the
greatest attention to keep up the pace through the thick mimosas without
dashing against their stems and branches. The jungle became thicker, and
although I was in the middle of the herd and within ten yards of several
giraffes, I could do nothing. A mass of thick and tangled thorns now
received them, and closed over the hardly-contested race--I was beaten.
Never mind, it was a good hunt--first-rate--but where was my camp? It
was nearly dark, and I could just distinguish the pass in the distance,
by which we had descended the mountain; thus I knew the direction but I
had ridden about three miles, and it would be dark before I could
return. However, I followed the heel tracks of the herd of giraffes.
Richarn was nowhere. Although I had lost the race, and was disappointed,
I now consoled myself that it was all for the best; had I killed a
giraffe at that hour and distance from camp, what good would it have
been? I was quite alone; thus who could have found it during the night?
and before morning it would have been devoured by lions and hyenas;
inoffensive and beautiful creatures, what a sin it appeared to destroy
them uselessly! With these consoling and practical reflections I
continued my way, until a branch of hooked thorn fixing in my nose
disturbed the train of ideas and persuaded me that it was very dark, and
that I had lost my way, as I could no longer distinguish either the
tracks of the giraffes or the position of the mountains.
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