It was three o'clock P.M., and, with little hope of finding the dogs, we rode along the path towards the Matturatta Plains.
We had just entered the forest, when we met a young hound returning along the path with a wound from a buck's horn in the shoulder.

There was now no doubt of the direction, and we galloped along the path towards the plains as hard as we could go.

About half way to the plains, to my joy I saw an immense buck's track in the path going in the same direction; the toes were spread wide apart, showing the pace at which he had been going; and there were dogs' tracks following him, all as fresh as could be.

This was a gladdening sight after a hard day's work, and we gave a random cheer to encourage any dogs that might be within hearing, rattling our horses over the ground at their best speed.
At last the plains were reached.

We pulled up our panting steeds, and strained every nerve to hear the cry of the hounds.