We ate some insipid and sodden cold fish -- that is,
with the exception of Umslopogaas, who, like most Zulus, cannot
bear fish -- and took a pull of brandy, of which we fortunately
had a few bottles left, and then began what, with one exception
-- when we same three white men nearly perished of cold on the
snow of Sheba's Breast in the course of our journey to Kukuanaland
-- was, I think, the most trying night I ever experienced. It
seemed absolutely endless, and once or twice I feared that two
of the Askari would have died of the wet, cold, and exposure.
Indeed, had it not been for timely doses of brandy I am sure
that they would have died, for no African people can stand much
exposure, which first paralyses and then kills them. I could
see that even that iron old warrior Umslopogaas felt it keenly;
though, in strange contrast to the Wakwafis, who groaned and
bemoaned their fate unceasingly, he never uttered a single complaint.
To make matters worse, about one in the morning we again heard
the owl's ominous hooting, and had at once to prepare ourselves
for another attack; though, if it had been attempted, I do not
think that we could have offered a very effective resistance.
But either the owl was a real one this time, or else the Masai
were themselves too miserable to think of offensive operations,
which, indeed, they rarely, if ever, undertake in bush veldt.
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