"I believe you are all hoaxing us," said the young lady next Mr.
Quatermain, rather sharply.

"Believe me," answered the old hunter, with a quaint courtesy and a
little bow of his grizzled head; "though I have lived all my life in the
wilderness, and amongst savages, I have neither the heart, nor the want
of manners, to wish to deceive one so lovely."

Whereat the young lady, who was pretty, looked appeased.

"This is very dreadful," I broke in. "We ask for bread and you give us a
stone, Mr. Quatermain. The least that you can do is to tell us the story
of the tusks opposite and the buffalo horns underneath. We won't let you
off with less."

"I am but a poor story-teller," put in the old hunter, "but if you will
forgive my want of skill, I shall be happy to tell you, not the story
of the tusks, for that is part of the history of our journey to King
Solomon's Mines, but that of the buffalo horns beneath them, which is
now ten years old."

"Bravo, Quatermain!" said Sir Henry. "We shall all be delighted. Fire
away! Fill up your glass first."

The little man did as he was bid, took a sip of claret, and
began:--"About ten years ago I was hunting up in the far interior of
Africa, at a place called Gatgarra, not a great way from the Chobe
River. I had with me four native servants, namely, a driver and
voorlooper, or leader, who were natives of Matabeleland, a Hottentot
named Hans, who had once been the slave of a Transvaal Boer, and a Zulu