One adventure thrilled me at first with delight, afterwards with grief. We met and attacked a caravan of English travellers. I was bound to a horse and strictly guarded, at a distance from the scene of action. I do not know what occurred, but from the exultant looks of the savages on their return, and from the blood-stained booty they brought with them, I feared the worst.
Another adventure I remember was a night attack on our camp by a rhinoceros. The savages fled before the infuriated brute more speedily than they would have done before a human foe.
But my experience, gained since then, is that rhinoceroses are not as a rule dangerous animals, although a great many marvellous stories are told about them, usually travellers’ tales.
Sometimes the hill and the jungle gave place to wide marsh lands, through which the cattle were driven first, the horses following, and last of all the foolish old king on his litter, with his rum bottle beside him.
Often he used to drink till he fell asleep. Sometimes he would make me sit by him. Once he had his great hand on my shoulder, and kept feeling at my neck.
I afterwards asked Jooma what he meant.
“Nothing he mean,” replied Jooma, grinning, “only feel for proper place to cut your head away. Dat nothing!”