The young lions roar after their prey,
And seek their meat from God:
The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together,
And lay them down in their dens.
There was a hill, with a wide outlook of plain, and from it, the lesser
wild animals at feed, might be marked for the gloaming. It was covert
wherein the lion could abide, to lie in wait, a secret lurking-place. Up
the back of this hill climbed Sir George, eye and ear on the alert, for
one suspected to be about. He was about, but already bounding down the
rocky face of the ridge, in a hurry to be clear of the hunter. Sir George
mounted his horse, eager to cut him off, and rode, break-neck, the path
he had already climbed. There the lion galloped, at a kingly swing,
heading for the thick bush in the distance. As he neared it, Sir George
aimed a forlorn shot, which proved a farewell salute. He dismounted, and
waded through the growth, to the concern of his Kaffir boy, but the lion
was tracked no more.
These excursions of a leisure hour sent Sir George fresh, vigorous, full
of resource to the alarums that arraigned him in South Africa. The
greatest of them was not South African, but blew across the Indian Ocean.
On an August morning, a steamer drew wearily into Table Bay with a
message for the Governor.
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