“This is what I call real enjoyment,” said Considine, as he rode with Hans, somewhat in advance of the cavalcade;—“splendid weather, magnificent scenery, lots of game big and little, good health and freedom. What more could a man wish?”
“Ja,” said Hans quietly; “you have reason to be thankful—yet there is more to wish for.”
“What more?” asked Considine.
“That the whole world were as happy as yourself,” said Hans, looking full at his friend with a bland smile.
“And so I do wish that,” returned Considine with enthusiasm.
“Do you?” asked Hans, with a look of surprise.
“Of course I do; why do you doubt it?” asked his friend, with a perplexed look.
Hans did not reply, but continued to gaze at the mountain-range towards which the party was riding.
And, truly, it was a prospect which might well absorb the attention and admiration of men less capable of being affected by the beauties of nature than Hans Marais.
They were passing through a verdant glen at the foot of the mountains, the air of which was perfumed with wild flowers, and filled with the garrulous music of paroquets and monkeys. In front lay the grand range of the Winterberg, with its coronet of rocks, its frowning steeps, its grassy slopes, and its skirts feathered over with straggling forest,—all bathed in the rich warm glow of an African sunset.