When we came to a lagoon, the western sky was golden, and the dark headland beyond was reflected in the still water: everything was wrapped in a mellow haze of light. The spell of absolute loneliness and silence lay over all things. But where was the path? We turned the horses up the river-bed, crossing and re-crossing many streams, anxiously scanning some old hoof-marks, but as often as not finding they were but tracks of the half-wild cattle of the settlers. No one in sight, no sign of habitation—and the sun sank, and it became harder and harder to trace the will-o’-the-wisp hoof-marks. Now the river-bed widened out into a flat—partly shingle, partly overgrown with scrub—more puzzling than ever. Could we have passed our accommodation-house already, and were we riding up into the uninhabited mountains? And thus, lost and hungry, alone and tired, that sudden-falling southern dusk came on us. Still we must push on—we could not stay all night in a river bed if any other were within reach! Suddenly Tom turned round, and stopped with pricked ears, listening. The beat of hoofs on stones was distinctly audible, and out of the dusk behind us came two galloping figures.
We waited till they came up to us—clattering the stones to right and left in their wild career. They drew rein with friendly greetings, telling us they had been to meet us by a new track, cut lately through the bush, and finding we had passed it unseen, had galloped to the river-bed to
