During the last half-hour of our slow and cat-like climb, we could hear the ring of the bushmen's axes, and the warning shouts preceding the crashing fall of a Black Birch.

Fallen logs and deep ruts made by the sledges in their descent, added to the difficulties of the track; and I was so faint-hearted as to entreat piteously, on more than one occasion, when Helen paused and shook her head preparatory to climbing over a barricade, to be "taken off." But F---- had been used to these dreadful roads for too many years to regard them in the same light as I did, and would answer carelessly, "Nonsense: you're as safe as if you were sitting in an arm-chair." All I can say is, it might have been so, but I did not feel at all like it.
However, the event proved him to have been right, and we reached the clearing in safety.

Here we dismounted, and led the horses to a place where they could nibble some grass, and rest in the cool shade.

The saddles and bridles were soon removed, and halters improvised out of the New Zealand flax, which can be turned to so many uses.

Having provided for the comfort of our faithful animals, our next step was to look for the bushmen.