This Is A Stupendous Cataract,
About A Mile Below The Foot Of Which Is The Village Of Perewelle.
I
passed close to the village, and, having ascended the steep sides of the
mountain, I spent hours in searching for the pack, but the roaring of
the river and the din of the waterfalls would have drowned the cry of a
hundred hounds.
Once, and only once, when halfway up the side of the
mountain, I thought I heard the deep bay of a hound in the river below;
then I heard the shout of a native; but the sound was not repeated, and
I thought it might proceed from the villagers driving their buffaloes. I
passed on my arduous path, little thinking of the tragic fate which at
that moment attended poor Merriman.
The next day all the dogs found their way home to the kennel, with the
exception of Merriman. I was rather anxious at his absence, as he knew
the whole country so thoroughly that he should have been one of the
first dogs to return. I was convinced that the buck had been at bay in
the large river, as I had seen his tracks in several places on the
banks, with dog tracks in company; this, added to the fact of the two
stray dogs being found in the vicinity, convinced me that they had
brought the elk to bay in the river, in which I imagined he had beaten
the dogs off. Two or three days passed away without Merriman's return;
and, knowing him to be the leading hound of the pack, I made up my mind
that he had been washed down a waterfall and killed.
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