It was almost as though a magic portal had clicked after us.
Behind it lay the wonderful secret upper country of the unknown.
XLVIII.
THE LAST TREK.
Some weeks later we camped high on the slopes of Suswa, the great
mountain of the Rift Valley, only one day's march from the railroad.
After the capture of the kudu Africa still held for us various
adventures--a buffalo, a go of fever, and the like--but the culmination
had been reached. We had lingered until the latest moment, reluctant to
go. Now in the gray dawn we were filing down the slopes of the mountains
for the last trek. A low, flowing mist marked the distant Kedong; the
flames of an African sunrise were revelling in the eastern skies. All
our old friends seemed to be bidding us good-bye. Around the shoulder of
the mountains a lion roared, rumble upon rumble. Two hyenas leapt from
the grass, ran fifty yards, and turned to look at us.
"Good-bye, simba! good-bye, fice!" we cried to them sadly.
A little farther we saw zebra, and the hartebeeste, and the gazelles.
One by one appeared and disappeared again the beasts with which we had
grown so familiar during our long months in the jungle. So remarkable
was the number of species that we both began to comment upon the fact,
to greet the animals, to bid them farewell, as though they were
reporting in order from the jungle to bid us God-speed. Half in earnest
we waved our hands to them and shouted our greetings to them in the
native--punda milia, kongoni, pa-a, fice, m'pofu, twiga, simba,
n'grooui, and the rest.
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