"Charge!" (continued 6)

We had no sooner halted than the officers’ glasses were focussed, and all waited anxiously for an explanation of the movements which the non-commissioned officers and privates could see somewhat indistinctly with the naked eye.

Denham was close to me; and, like the good fellow he was, he took care to let me know what he made out, speaking so that his words were plainly heard by Sergeant Briggs and the others near.

“It seems to be a general advance of the enemy,” he said, with his eyes close to his glass. “They’re coming steadily on at a walk. Yes; wagons and all.”

“That doesn’t mean an attack, sir,” said the Sergeant.

“I don’t know what it means,” said Denham. “Yes, I think I do. They’ve got some notion into their heads that we mean to break through the ring, and they are going to close up, to make it more solid.”

“They think we’re getting tired of it, sir, and that when we see them loaded with plenty of good things we shall surrender.”

“Perhaps it’s out of kindness, Briggs,” said Denham, laughing. “They want to tempt us into making another raid because the distance will be shorter for us to go.”

“Then I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed, sir, for the Colonel isn’t likely to risk losing any of his men while we’ve got all those bullocks to eat.”

“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Denham; then, thoughtfully: “It looks to me like some bit of cunning—a sort of ruse to get within rifle-shot. Look how steadily they’re coming on.”

That was plain enough to us all, line after line of horsemen advancing as regularly as if they had been well-drilled cavalry; and for my part, inexperienced as I was in such matters, I could not help thinking that the wagons were being pushed forward on purpose to afford cover for their best marksmen, and that in a short time the bullets would begin to be pinging and buzzing about our ears.

I can’t say what the Colonel thought; but almost directly the trumpet rang out, and we were cantered back, to file steadily into the great courtyard again, with the men grumbling and muttering among themselves at having been made what they called fools of.

“I tell you what it is, Val,” said Denham as soon as he had another chance to speak; “I believe I’ve got it.”

“What—the Boers’ plan?”

“Yes; don’t you see? They’ll come right in so as to be within easy shot of our grazing grounds.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, “I never thought of that. Of course; and if the horses and cattle are driven out, they’ll be able to shoot them down till we haven’t a beast left.”

“Nor a bit of beef. It’s to force us to surrender—a regular siege.”

It was rapidly getting dark then; and we soon learned that our ideas of the Boers’ ruse were the same as those entertained by our chiefs.

Upon the strength of the closer approach the sentries were doubled, and by means of the wagons the entrance to our stronghold was barricaded in a more effectual way; but we were not to be allowed to rest with a feeling of security that night. In about a couple of hours after our return a shot was fired by one of the sentries, then another, and another; and the men stood to their arms, on foot, ready for an attack by the enemy. In a few minutes, however, the news ran round that the sentries had fired at a dark figure creeping along under the wall inside the courtyard after repeated challenges; and, later, the news spread that the sentry on guard over the prisoner was lying insensible and bleeding from a great cut on the back of his head, and that Captain Moriarty was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Thirty Four.

An Ambuscade In Stone.

“The chief’s in an awful rage, Val,” said Denham, when he came to me after a thorough search had seemed to prove that the prisoner had eluded the vigilance of the sentries. “He swears that some one must have been acting in collusion with the pompous blackguard, and that he means to have the whole of our Irish boys before him and cross-examine the lot.”

“I hope he will not,” I said.

“So do I; for I don’t believe one of them would have lent him a hand, and it would offend them all.”

“Yes,” I said; “they’re all as hot-headed and peppery as can be.”

“Spoiling for a fight,” put in Denham.

“Yes; and so full of that queer feeling which makes them think a set is made against them because they are Irish.”

“Exactly,” cried my companion; “and it’s such a mistake on their part, because we always like them for their high spirits and love of a bit of fun.”

“They’re the wittiest and cleverest fellows in the corps.”

“And if I wanted a dozen chaps to back me up in some dangerous business, I’d sooner depend on them for standing to me to the last than any one I know.”

“Oh! it would be a pity,” I said warmly. “I hope the Colonel will think better of it.”

Denham winked at me as we sat in shelter by the light of a newly-invented lamp, made of a bully-beef tin cut down shallow and with a couple of dints in the side; it was full of melted fat, across which a strip out of the leg of an old cotton stocking had been laid so that the two ends projected an inch beyond the two spout-like dints.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“The chief,” said Denham, “good old boy, kicks up a shindy, and swears he’ll do this or that, and then he thinks better of it. I’ve got off my wigging.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Met the old boy after I had been having a regular hunt everywhere with half-a-dozen men, and he nodded to me in quite a friendly way. ‘Thank you, Denham,’ he said. ‘Tell your men that they were very smart.’”

“I’m glad of that,” I said.

“Same here, dear boy. It’s his way, bless him! He likes a red rag to go at, the old John Bull that he is; but if another begins to flutter somewhere else, he forgets number one and goes in for number two.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” I said. “But it’s a great pity that fellow got away. I believe he has been shamming a bit lately.”

“No doubt about it. The nuisance of it is, that the brute will go and put the Boers up to everything as to our strength, supplies, ammunition, and goodness knows what else. But, look here, I’m going on now to see how Sam Wren is.”

“Sam Wren?” I cried wonderingly. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Matter? Why, he was the sentry Moriarty knocked down.”

“Oh, poor fellow! I am sorry,” I said, for the private in question was one of the smartest and best-tempered men in our troop.

“So’s everybody,” replied Denham. “I say: it was contusion in his case, not collusion.”

“Where is he?” I said.

“In hospital. Duncombe’s a bit uneasy about him. I’m going on again to see him. Will you come?”

“Of course,” I said eagerly.

“Come along, then. We’ll take the lamp, or some sentry may be popping at us.”

“The wind will puff it out in that narrow passage.”

“Not as I shall carry it,” replied my companion; and he led off, with his broad-brimmed felt held over the flickering wick, in and out among the fallen stones between the walls, nearly to the other side of the court. Here another covered-in patch had been turned into a fairly snug hospital by hanging up two wagon-tilts twenty feet apart, after clearing away the loose stones; and a certain number of fairly comfortable beds had been made of the captured corn-sacks.

On reaching the first great curtain Denham called upon me to hold it aside, as his hands were full; and as I did so I caught sight, on the right-hand side, of our doctor down on one knee and bending over his patient, whose face could be seen by the light of a lantern placed upon a stone, while his voice sounded plainly, as if he were replying to something the surgeon had said.

“Only me, Duncombe,” said Denham. “Just come to see how Wren is.”

“Better, thank goodness,” said the doctor. “He seemed to come-to about five minutes ago.”

“I am glad, Wren,” said Denham, setting down the lamp beside the lantern.

“Thank ye, sir,” said the poor fellow, smiling. “Moray’s come with me to look you up.” The wounded man looked pleased to see me, and then his face puckered up as he turned his eyes again to the doctor and said:

“I don’t mind the crack on the head, sir, a bit. Soldiers deal in hard knocks, and they must expect to get some back in return. I know I’ve given plenty. It’s being such a soft worries me.”

“Well, don’t let it worry you. Help me by taking it all coolly, and I’ll soon get you well again.”

“That you will, sir. I know that,” said the man gently. “But I feel as if I should like to tell the Colonel that I was trying to do my duty.”

“He doesn’t want telling that, Sam,” said Denham. “Of course you were.”

“But I oughtn’t to have been such a fool, sir—such a soft Tommy of a fellow. I knew he was a humbug; but he looked so bad, and pulled such a long face, that I didn’t like to be hard. ‘Here, sentry,’ he says, as he sat up with his back to the wall, just after you’d gone, ‘this right leg’s gone all dead again. It’s strained and wrenched through the horse lying upon it all those hours. Just come and double up one of those sacks and lay it underneath for a cushion. The pain keeps me from going to sleep.’”

“Oh, that’s how it happened—was it?” said the doctor, while we two listened eagerly.

“I’m coming to it directly, sir,” said the man querulously. “Well, sir, seeing as I felt that, as I was sentry over the hospital, I was in charge of a wounded man as well, I just rested my rifle against the wall, picked up one of the sacks, and doubled it in four. Then, just as innocent as a babby, I kneels down, lifts up his leg softly, bending over him like, and was just shoving the bit of a cushion-like thing under his knee, when it seemed as if one of the big stones up there had fallen flat on the back of my head, and I heard some one say, ‘Take that, you ugly Sassenach beast! and see how you like lying in hospital.’ Then it was all black, sir, till I opened my eyes and saw you holding that stuff to my lips.”

“Yes, my man,” said the doctor; “now don’t talk any more, but lie still.”

“Tell me about that crack on the head again, sir, please. It wasn’t one of the stones fell down, then?”

“No; the prisoner must have got hold of this piece somehow, then kept it ready by the side of his bed, and struck you down.”

“And a nasty, dirty, cowardly blow, too,” said the poor fellow feebly. “Beg pardon, sir; you’ll pull me round as quickly as you can—won’t you?”

“Of course,” said the doctor, smiling.

“Thank ye, sir. I want to have an interview with that gentleman again.”

“I suppose so,” said Denham; “and so do about four hundred of the corps. He’d have been stood up with his back to one of the walls and shot by this time, but the brute has got away.”

“We shall run against him again, though, sir,” said the wounded man confidently, “and we shan’t mistake him for any one else.—Beg pardon, though, sir; you’re quite sure my skull isn’t broken?”

“Quite,” said the doctor. “Now be quiet.”

“Certainly, sir; but is it cracked?”

“No, nor yet cracked,” said the doctor, smiling. “You’re suffering from concussion of the brain.”

“And I’ll concuss his brain, sir, if I can only get a chance; but I will do it fair and— Yes, sir, I’ve done, and I’m going to sleep.”

He smiled at us both, and then closed his eyes; while, after a few words with the doctor, Denham picked up the lamp, and we went gently to the other rough curtain.

“It’s just as near to go back this way,” said Denham as I lowered the canvas again, and we passed on, to be confronted directly after by a sentry, who challenged with his levelled bayonet pointed at our breasts; but after giving the word we passed on.

“Seems queer for poor Sam Wren,” said my companion, “changing places like that. Sentry one moment; patient the next. Bah! it is a nuisance that the prisoner should have been able to get away.”

“And go back to the Boers, full of all he has seen here,” I said.

“Well, it will make us all the more careful,” said Denham, still shading the lamp with his hat as we went on, till we had passed where we could hear the movement of the horses tethered to the long lines, with none too much room to stir, poor beasts! Commenting on the condition of our mounts, I remarked that, as the Boers had come in so close, the horses would have but little opportunity for stretching their legs.

“Oh, don’t you be afraid about that; the chief isn’t the man to let the Doppies come close like this without having something to say on his side. You may depend upon it that the moment he feels that the horses are going the wrong way, there’ll be such a dash made as will astonish our friends outside.”

“Well, I shall not be sorry,” I said, “for I don’t like being shut up as we are. Look up. I say, what a lovely starlight night!”

“No, thank you,” replied Denham. “I like fine nights, but I like to take care of my shins; and if I get star-gazing the lamp will be blown out, and we shall be going down one of those holes into the old gold-mine. There is one just in front—isn’t there?”

“Two,” I said; “but there are great stones laid across now.”

“Across the middle; but there’s plenty of room to go down on one side. Look! Here we are.”

He stopped and held the lamp down, its feeble rays showing that he was upon a broad stone laid across one of the old mine-shafts, one of those close by the ancient furnace we had discovered on our first visit. On this he now halted for a moment, partly from curiosity, partly to draw my attention to the danger.

“I should like to tie some of the horses’ reins together and have a decent lantern, so as to be let down to explore these places.”

“You couldn’t,” I said. “Don’t you remember when we threw a stone down this one it fell some distance and then went splash into the water?”

“It was the one farther on, not this one,” said Denham, bending lower.

“Well, you may depend upon it that there’d be no going far before coming to water.”

“Val!” cried my companion suddenly.

“What’s the matter?”

“That’s what some of our chaps have been doing.”

“What! going down to the water?”

“No; exploring to find gold. Look here; they’ve been doing exactly what I said. Here’s a rein tied round this stone with the end going right down, and—”

Crash!

“Ah! Val!”

There was the sound of a couple of strokes, one falling upon the lamp, which seemed to leap down into the shaft at our feet, the other stroke falling on Denham’s head; and as I sprang to his assistance I was conscious of receiving a tremendous thrust which sent me headlong downward, as if I were making a dive from the stone I tried to cross. The next minute my head came in contact with stones, strange scintillations of light flashed before my eyes, there was a roar as of thunder in my ears, and then all was blank.

Chapter Thirty Five.

In Doleful Dumps.

Mine was a strange awakening to what appeared like a confused dream. There was a terrible pain in my head, and a sensation as of something warm and wet trickling down the side of my face, accompanied by a peculiar smarting which made me involuntarily raise my hand and quickly draw it away again, for I had only increased the pain. Then I lay quite still, trying to puzzle out what was the matter.

At first I could only realise the fact that the darkness was intense. After a time the idea occurred that I must have been out with my troop attacking the Boers, and that a bullet had struck me diagonally on the forehead and glanced off after making the cut, which kept bleeding; but I was so stunned that a kind of veil seemed to be raised between the present and the past.

“I shall think all about it soon,” I mused. “It’s of no use to worry after a fall.”

Then I wondered about Sandho, and how the poor beast had fared, a pang of mental agony shooting through me as I listened.

I could not hear a sound.

“He’s killed,” was my next thought; “for if he had been alive he would have stopped directly I fell from his back, and waited for me to remount.”

I began to feel about with my hands; but instead of touching soft earth or bush I felt rough stones, wet and slimy as if coated with fine moss, and it had lately been raining. A faint musical drip, as of falling water, strengthened this notion; but I did not try to follow it out, for my head throbbed severely. So I lay still trying to rest, and gazing upward expecting to see the stars. All above, however, was black with a solid intensity that was awe-inspiring. I could see nothing; but I could feel, and became aware of another fact: I was lying among rocks in a most uncomfortable and painful position, with my head and shoulders in a niche between two pieces of stone, and my feet high above me.

“At the foot of some kopje,” I remember fancying. Then my mind grew clearer—so much clearer that I felt for my handkerchief, got it out of my breast, doubled it, and bound it round my forehead to stop the bleeding. This took me some time; but the movement, painful though it was, seemed to give me more power of thinking, and I began to do more. After an effort, I managed to get my back and shoulders out of the crevice in the rocks where they were wedged. Then my legs slipped down of their own weight, and I felt myself gliding down a sharp incline. I spread out my hands to stop myself, and succeeded, bringing up against some loose stones.

“Sandho’s somewhere at the bottom of this slope,” I thought, and I called him by name; but I was horrified to hear my words go reverberating from me with strange, whispering echoes which died slowly away.

“How strange!” I muttered, as the intense darkness made my feeling of confusion return. “Where am I? What place is this?”

I knew I was saying these words aloud; and what followed came like an answer to my question, for from somewhere close at hand there was a deep moaning sigh. I started violently and tried to creep away; but my head began to swim with terrible giddiness on attempting to move. As this subsided a little I thrust out my hand cautiously and began to feel about, touching at the end of a few seconds something which brought back my memory with a rush. My fingers had come in contact with the tin contrivance we had used for a lamp; and, naturally enough, the touch recalled to me who had borne it, and the accident that had befallen us. Accident? No; it must have been an attack.

However, my head was clearing rapidly, and the sense of horror and pain was passing off like mist; and now I began again to feel cautiously about, but without avail, till I turned upon my hands and knees and crawled a yard or two, slipped, and clung to the rugged surface to check my descent. Then my feet went down to the full extent before they were stopped by something soft, and a thrill of satisfaction ran through me, for a well-known voice said peevishly:

“Don’t—don’t!—What is it?”

“Val,” I cried, and my voice was caught up, and died away in whispers.

Then there was a pause, and I lay listening till, from below, came the words:

“Did any one speak?”

“Yes, yes, I did,” I cried. “Where are you?”

“I—I don’t know. Think I must have had a fall.”

I was about to lower myself to the speaker, when a sudden thought made me turn a little over on my left side. The next moment I was clinging hard with both hands, for a stone I had touched gave way, and there was a rushing sound, silence, and then a horrible echoing splash which set my heart beating fast. In imagination I saw the loosened stone slide down to an edge below me, and bound off, to fall into the water, which I could hear lapping, sucking, and gliding about the sides of the chasm, strangely suggestive of live creatures which had been disturbed and had made a rush at the falling stone in the belief it was something they might tear and devour.

Recovering from my momentary panic, I set one hand free to search for and get out my little tin match-box. It was no easy task, under the circumstances, to get it open and strike one of the tiny tapers.

“Val, is that you?” came from just below.

“Yes; wait a moment. Hold tight,” I said in a choking voice, as I rubbed the match on the bottom of the box, making a phosphorescent line of light, then another, and another, before impatiently throwing the match from me and seeing its dim light die away in the darkness.

I knew the reason why I had not got the match to light. As I opened the box again to get another, I did not insert finger and thumb till they got a good rub on my jacket to free them from the dampness caused by holding on to the wet stones. Now, as I struck, there was a sharp crackling noise, and the light flashed out, caught on, and the match burned bravely, giving me light enough to look for the tin lamp I had touched before. There it was, some little distance above me, on a terribly steep, wet slope.

No time was to be lost; so, mastering my hesitation as I thought of what was before me if I slipped, I began to climb; but, before I had drawn myself up a yard, Denham’s voice rose to me, its tones full of agony and despair:

“Don’t leave me, Val, old fellow!”

“Not going to,” I shouted. “I’m getting the lamp.”

“Ah!” came from below.

Almost before the exclamation had died away I was within reach of the fallen lamp; but just then I dislodged another loose stone, which went rolling down and plunged into the water below.

The match had burned out.

“All right,” I shouted. “I’ll get another.”

The same business had to be gone through again. Untaught by experience, I moistened the top of the first match I took out, my fingers trembling the while with nervous dread that I would drop the box or spill the matches, when the result might be death to one, if not to both. I tried the damp match three times before throwing it away; then, taking out two together and striking them, my spirits rose as I got a light, which was passed into my left hand, and with the other I secured the lamp, which lay bottom up.

“The tallow and wick will have fallen out,” I thought. No; the hard fat was in its place. Again I took out a match, shivering as I saw how rapidly it burned away. The very next moment I had laid it against the bent-down wick, which had been flattened by the fall; and it sputtered and refused to burn. All I could do till my fingers began to burn was to melt out some of the tallow and partially dry the wick. Then all was darkness again.

“Cheer up!” I cried hoarsely; “third time never fails.” There was no response. I turned cold as I fumbled at the box once more; my fingers needed no moisture from the slippery stones now to make them wet, for the perspiration seemed to be oozing out of every pore.

I was again successful when I struck a match, and it burned up brightly. My heart now beat more hopefully, as one tiny strand of the cotton caught and ceased sputtering, giving forth a feeble blue flame, which I was able to coax by letting the fat it melted drain away till more and more of the wick caught and began to burn.

I dared not wait to light the second wick, but looked for a safe place to set the lamp; this I found directly, within reach of my hand. My hurried glance showed that we were in a rough tunnel or shoot, sloping down rapidly into darkness—a darkness too horrible to contemplate; and, to my despair, I could not see Denham. Then, as the sight of the light revived him, I could hear his shivering sigh.

“Where are you?” I said, trying to speak firmly.

“Just below you,” came faintly.

I felt my teeth were clenched together as I asked the next question, knowing only too well what must be the answer:

“Can you see to climb up to me?”

“No,” came back after a pause of a moment or two. “I’m hurt and sick. I feel as if I shall faint.”

“Can you hold on till I get down to you?”

“I—I think so, old fellow,” he said faintly. “I’m on a sort of shelf. But don’t try—you can’t do it—you’ll send the loose stones down upon me. That last one grazed my head.”

“But I must,” I said harshly, and I remember fancying that my voice sounded savage and brutal. “I can’t leave you like this.”

“Climb up out of this horrible hole yourself, old fellow, and leave me.”

“I won’t,” I shouted, so that my voice went echoing away; but as I looked up past the light it seemed to me that I could not, even if willing.

“You must,” said Denham more firmly. “Climb up and call for help.”

At that moment, sounding faint and distant, there was the report of a rifle; then another, and another, followed by four or five in a volley.

“The Boers are attacking,” I cried. My heart sank as something seemed to say to me, “Well, if they are, what does it matter to you?”

The firing went on, and just then the wick of the lamp, of which a good deal must have been loosened by the fall, began to blaze up famously. I looked around to ascertain if I could get down to help Denham; but it seemed impossible. I saw, however, that I might lower myself a couple of feet farther, and get my heels in a transverse crack in the rock, where I could check myself and perhaps afford some help to a climber.

“Look here, Denham,” I shouted out as if I had been running, “I can help you if you can climb up here. You must pluck up and try.”

He muttered, with a low groan:

“Don’t talk like that, old chap. I’ve got the pluck, but feel as if I haven’t got the power. If I stir I shall go down into that awful pool, and then— Oh dear, it’s very horrible to die like a rat in a flooded hole!”

“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” I shouted, in a rage. “Who’s going to die? Look here; I can’t get down to you, so I must climb out and fetch help. I’ll go if you’ll swear you’ll sit fast and be patient, even if the light goes out.”

There was no answer.

“Denham, old fellow, do you hear me?” I cried, with a thrill of horror running through me as I imagined he had fainted, and that the next moment I should hear a sullen splash.

“Yes, I hear you,” he said. “I’ll try. It’s all right. But why don’t you shout?”

“No one could hear me, even if that firing was not going on,” I said. Looking upwards, I felt that the only chance was to try; but I was almost certain that I should slip, fall, and most likely carry my poor friend with me. The flickering light made the rocks above appear as if in motion; and, as I stared up wildly, the various projections looked as if a touch would send them rushing down. Then I uttered a gasp and tried to shout, but my voice failed. Was I deceiving myself? Almost within reach was a rope hanging down, close to the wall of the shaft on my right. Then I could speak again.

“Hurrah!” I shouted. “Here’s help, Denham. Hold on; some one’s letting down a rope. Ahoy, there! swing it more into the middle.”

Echoes were the only answer. Almost in despair, I crept sideways, and made a frantic dash just as I felt I was slipping, and a stone gave way beneath my feet. There I hung, flat upon the rock, listening to a couple of heavy splashes, but with the rope tight in my grasp as if my fingers had suddenly become of steel. I could not speak again for a few minutes; but at last, as the echoes of the splashes died out, the words came:

“All right, Denham?” A horrible pause followed; then, with a gasp:

“Yes—all right—yes—I thought it was all over then.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Use of Muscles.

Some one wrote, “Circumstances alter cases.” Everybody knows how true that is, and how often we have illustrations in our own lives. Here is one: to catch hold of a rope after jumping to it is wonderfully easy, and in our young days the sensation of swinging to and fro in a sort of bird-like flight through the air is delightful—that is to say, if the ground is so near that we can drop on our feet at any moment; there is no thought of danger as we feel perfect confidence in our power to hold on. It is a gymnastic exercise. But change the scene: be hanging at the end of the same rope, with the knowledge that a friend and comrade is in deadly peril, and that, though resting against a rocky slope which gives you foothold and relieves the strain on your muscles, there is beneath you a horrible chasm full of black water, hidden by the darkness, but lapping and whispering as if waiting to receive the unfortunate. It is then that the nerves weaken and begin to communicate with and paralyse the muscles, unless there is sufficient strength of mind to counteract the horror, setting fear at defiance.

The best thing under these circumstances is to get the body to work, and make brain take the second place. In other words, act and don’t think.

I must confess that my endeavours during those perilous moments were quite involuntary; for it was in a kind of desperation that I got my toes upon a solid piece of the slippery rock and pressed myself against the steep slope for a few moments, listening to the firing, some of which sounded close, some more distant. Then, shouting to Denham to hold on, I glanced at the lamp, which was flaring bravely and giving a good light, but only at the expense of the rapidly melting fat. The next minute I was climbing as quickly as I could by the rope, and shuddering as I heard stone after stone go down, any one of which I knew might crash full upon Denham.

There was no time to think—I was too hard at work; and, to my surprise, I found myself just beneath the long bridge-like piece of stone which had been laid across the opening to the shaft; while, by holding on to the rope with one hand and, reaching up the other to grasp the stone, I could see by the light which rose from below—reflected from the glistening wall, for the lamp was out of sight—that the rope was one of the strong tethering-reins, fastened round the stone as if for the purpose of lowering a bucket.

The next minute I was seated on the stone, with my feet resting on the side of the shaft-hole, and drawing up the raw-hide rope hand over hand. After pulling up some feet of it I came upon a knot which felt secure, and I then hauled again till I came upon another, also well made. With the rope gathering in rings about my knees and behind me, I kept hauling till I came to knot after knot, all quite firm. I found that the rope was dripping with water, and knew that it had been just drawn out of the pool below. The end of the rope came to hand directly; and, with trembling fingers, my first act was to tie a knot a few inches up before doubling the strong raw-hide plait and tying it again in a loop, which I tested, and found I could easily slip it over my head and pass my arras through so as to get it beneath the armpits.

I had the rope off again in a few seconds, held it ready, and shouted down to Denham, who had been perfectly still.

“Now then,” I cried; “can you hear what I say?”

“Yes,” came in a strange, hollow tone.

“Look out! I’m going to lower you a rope with a loop all ready tied. Slip it over your head and under your arms.”

“Ah!” he said softly; and, as I rapidly lowered down the rope, though the tone seemed only like an expiration of the breath, it yet sounded firmer than that “Yes” of a few moments before.

“I can’t see, old fellow,” I cried, when I had paid out what I thought must be enough; “but this ought to be near you now. Can you see it?”

“Yes; but it is a dozen feet too high,” he replied. “It won’t reach me.”

“Yes, it will,” I roared, for there was a despairing tone in those last words. “Plenty more. Look out!”

I lowered away, and then shouted again:

“That enough?”

“Yes,” he said, with a little more spirit in his tone; “it’s long enough, but quite out of my reach—a couple of yards away, and I dare not move.”

“I’ll swing it to and fro till it comes close. Look out! Here goes.”

I began to swing the rope; and as it went to and fro it sent small stones rattling down and then splashing into the water, making me shiver. But they evidently fell clear of Denham, who sent a thrill of encouragement through me when he now spoke more cheerily.

“That’s right,” he said, and his words were repeated by the echoes. “A little more—a little more. No. Harder. It keeps catching among the stones. Give a good swing.”

I did as he told me, and then nearly let go, for he uttered a wild cry, almost a shriek. The next moment there was a peculiar rattling sound; the lamp flashed out brilliantly and lighted up the shaft; there was a sharp hiss, followed by a splash, and then all was in darkness.

“Denham!” I yelled, and I let the rest of the rope run through my hands till it could hang taut, meaning to slide down it and go to his assistance, for I was sure that all depended upon me now. I was already changing my position, when—my sinking heart, which seemed to suggest that I was about to descend to certain death, giving a sudden bound, and I felt choking—Denham spoke again.

“I couldn’t stop the lamp,” he said; “the rope caught it and knocked it off the ledge; but I’ve got hold.”

“Hurrah!”

I suppose I shouted that word, but it came out involuntarily. Then I listened, my heart beating painfully, for I could hear the poor fellow moving now, but, as it seemed, sending stone after stone rolling and splashing into the water.

However, nerved into action again, I did as he bade me, all the time fearing it was too late, for he shouted hoarsely:

“Pull up, Val—pull! I’m going down.”

My hands darted one over the other, the slack seeming endless as I heard a low rushing sound mingled with the splashing of falling stones. Then there was a sharp jerk at my wrists, and the rope began to glide through my hands till I let one leg drop from where my foot rested against the edge of the shaft-mouth, and quick as thought flung it round the rope so that my foot and ankle formed a check; with the result that I was nearly jerked off my seat before the rope was stopped.

“Ah!” came from below, and I heard no falling of stones now; but there was a splashing and dripping sound which for the moment I did not understand. Once more I thought all was over, for the rope seemed to slacken; but hope came again.

“Pull up steadily,” came in firmer tones; and, though I could not see, I supposed that Denham had drawn his feet from the water and was trying to climb up the rope. I knew it was so directly, for he spoke.

“I’ve got the rope well under my arms,” he panted out, “and if you keep hauling gently, I think perhaps I can climb up the side; but you must be ready for a slip. Can you pass it round anything?”

“Yes,” I said; and as the rope was eased I got both legs back into their position again, thus hindering my power of hauling dreadfully, but guarding against the rope being dragged down again rapidly by passing it over my right leg and under the left.

“Are you sure you can hold on if I slip?” said Denham now.

“Yes, if you come slowly. The rope’s strong enough, and I’ll get it up a yard at a time, so that’s all the distance you can pull.”

“Ah!” he cried; “then I can use both hands, and climb with more confidence. Now then, I’m coming up.”

“Ready!” I shouted; and I toiled on with the perspiration moistening my hands as I steadily hauled with my right and left alternately, gaining a foot with one and making it secure over and under my legs with the other. All the while I could hear him painfully climbing as if gaining confidence with every yard he came nearer the surface.

“Now rest,” he said, and I could hear him breathing hard.

Stones had fallen again and again as he climbed; but I was getting accustomed to their rattle and sullen plunge, for so long as the rope proved true they were robbed of their terrible meaning. Just, however, as my poor comrade said he meant to take a rest, there was another sharp jerk which told that his foothold had given way, and for a moment or two I was wondering whether I could hold on, as I listened to the falling of many stones. Once more he gained a good footing, and from where he half-hung, half-lay, he began to talk slowly about his position.

“It’s like climbing up the side of a house built of loose stones,” he said in a low tone; “but I mean to do it now if you can keep hold of the rope firmly.”

“I can,” I said.

“Ah! It’s a horrible place, Val; but you give me confidence. Now then, I’m rested. Can you haul up more quickly? I want to get it done?”

“No,” I said quietly; “I can only just make the rope safe.”

“Very well. Go on as you like. There, I’m going to begin.”

“Go on,” I said; and once more the painful climb went on, with the stones falling and splashing, and the sound of Denham’s breath at times coming to my ears in sobs which seemed terribly loud. It did not last many minutes; but no more agony could have been condensed into hours, and no hours could have seemed longer than the interval during which I strove to save my companion from death.

However, all things come to an end; and at last, when I was nervously on the qui vive for another slip, and just when Denham seemed to be creeping painfully up, though still many feet below, I suddenly felt one of his hands touch my ankle, and the other get a good grip of the rope where it lay cutting into my leg. Then I heard his feet grating and scraping against the side, and my heart leaped as he threw himself on his side away from the mouth of the hole, and lay perfectly still.

“Ah!” I cried; “at last!” and, freeing my legs from the rope, I moved painfully after him; but at the first attempt I felt as if the darkness was lighting up, flashes played about my eyes, there was a horrible swinging round of everything in my head, and I sank down, crawled aside a little way instinctively to get from the shaft-mouth, and then for a few moments all was blank. Not more than a few moments, however, for Denham roused me by speaking.

“Is anything the matter?” he said.

“Matter?” I replied, as the absurdity of his question seemed to surprise me. “Oh no, nothing at all the matter, only that my head feels as if it had been crushed by a stone, and we had just saved ourselves from the most terrible death that could have come to two poor wretches who want to live. It’s very comic altogether—isn’t it?”

Denham sat in silence, and we could hear the firing still going on. At last he spoke with a low, subdued voice.

“Yes,” he said, “we have escaped from a horrible death. Val, old fellow, I shall never forget this. But don’t let us talk about it. Let us talk about who did it. Some one must have struck at us and knocked us down that hole.”

“Yes,” I said; “and there’s only one ‘some one’ who could have done it.”

“That renegade Irishman?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It seems like this: he couldn’t have got away, but must have been in hiding here. He couldn’t escape the watchfulness of the sentries, I suppose.”

“No; and he must have managed to get that rope to let himself down from the walls.”

“To let himself down into a place where he could hide, I think,” was my reply.

“For both purposes. But what a place to hide in!” said Denham, with a shudder. “He could not have known what he was doing, or he would not have gone down.”

“I believe he went down and was afraid to stay. Of course he was hiding somewhere here when we came along with the light.”

“And then struck us down. Are you much hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I forgot all about it for the time in the excitement of trying to escape. How are you?”

“My head hurts me badly now. I believe I was struck with a heavy stone.”

“Of course. That was the wretch’s trick, and how he served poor Sam Wren. Here, let’s go to the hospital. I feel as if I want to see the doctor.”

“Yes,” said Denham faintly. “I hope he has no more wounded after all this firing.”

Denham rose to his knees in the darkness, and I did the same, bringing on the giddy feeling once more, so that I was glad to lean against the wall of the great passage.

“What is the matter?” said my companion.

“Not much; only a bit dizzy,” I replied; “and my legs feel so awfully stiff and strained that I can hardly stand.”

“My head swims too,” said Denham. “I am glad to lean against the wall. Ah! Look! here is some one coming with a light.”

I uttered a sigh of relief, and then, taking a good deep breath, I gave a hail which brought half-a-dozen men to us, headed by Sergeant Briggs, who uttered an ejaculation of surprise as he held up the wagon lantern he carried and let the light fall on our faces.

“Why, you gents haven’t run up against that savage sham Paddy, have you?” he cried.

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Denham, speaking faintly; “and he got the better of us.”

“He has, sir, and no mistake.”

“Have you caught him, Briggs?” I asked anxiously.

“No, my lad; I only wish we had. I never saw such shots as our men are! Wasted no end of cartridges, and not one of ’em hit. Did nothing but draw the enemy’s fire, and they have been answering in the dark. All waste.”

“But Moriarty?” asked Denham.

“Moriarty!” said the Sergeant scornfully. “I’m Morihearty well sick of him, sir. It’s all easy enough to see now. Instead of getting away, as we thought, after hammering poor Sam Wren with a stone, my gentleman’s been in hiding.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes it is, my lad. Then he’s been sneaking about in the dark, going about among the men like a sarpent, and then among the horses, helping himself to the reins with his knife.”

“To join together and make a rope to let himself down from the wall,” I said.

“That’s right, my lad—right as right; and all our chaps asleep, I suppose—bless ’em! They ought to be ashamed of theirselves. There was quite a dozen nice noo reins missing, and half of ’em gone for ever.”

“Not quite, Sergeant,” said Denham; “take your light and look carefully down yonder.”

The Sergeant stared, but did as he was told, holding the lantern low down by the crossing-stone.

“Well, I am blessed!” he cried. “Here, one of you, come and loosen this knot and coil the ropes up carefully.—But, I say, Mr Denham, how did they come there?”

Denham told him briefly of our adventure, and of what we surmised.

He whistled softly, and then said, “Why, I wonder you’re both alive. You do both look half-dead, gentlemen; and no wonder. This accounts for one lot, though. The others were tied together and one end made fast to a big stone—a loose one atop of the wall. He must have slid down there and got away. I never saw such sentries as we’ve got. All those cartridges fired away, and not one to hit. Why, they ought to have pumped him so full of lead that he couldn’t run. Run? No; so that he couldn’t walk. But you two must come to the Colonel and let him know.”

“No, no! Take us to Dr Duncombe,” said Denham.

“Afterwards, sir.”

“Then you must carry me,” said Denham, with a groan.

“Right, sir.—Here, two of you, sling your rifles and dandy-chair your officer to the Colonel’s quarters. Two more of you serve young Moray same way.”

“No,” I said, making an effort. “One man give me his arm, and I’ll try to walk.”

“So will I,” said Denham, making an effort. “That’s right, Val; we won’t go into hospital, only let the doctor stick a bit or two of plaster about our heads for ornament. Now then, give me an arm.”

The result was that we mastered our suffering, and were led by the Sergeant’s patrol to the officers’ rough quarters. The first thing the Colonel did was to summon the doctor, who saw to our injuries, while Denham unburdened himself of our adventures, my head throbbing so that I could not have given a connected narrative had I tried.

Denham protested stoutly afterwards that there was no need for the doctor’s proposal that we should be sent to the hospital to be carried into effect, and appealed to the Colonel.

“Look at us both, sir,” he said. “Don’t you think that after a good night’s sleep we shall both be fit for duty in the morning?”

“Well, Mr Denham, to speak candidly,” was the reply, “you both look as dilapidated as you can possibly be; so you had better obey the doctor’s orders. I give you both up for the present.”

Denham groaned, and I felt very glad when a couple of the Sergeant’s guard clasped wrists to make, me a seat; and as soon as I had passed my arms over their shoulders their officer gave the word, and we were both marched off to the sheltered hospital, where I was soon after plunged in a heavy stupor, full of dreams about falling down black pits, swinging spider-like, at the end of ropes which I somehow spun by drawing long threads of my brains out of a hole in the back of my head, something after the fashion of a silkworm making a cocoon.

Then complete insensibility came on, and I don’t remember anything. But on the day following Denham and I lay pretty close together, talking, and looking up at the sky just above, one of the wagon-tilt curtains being thrown back.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

A Hospital Visitor.

“Hang being in hospital!” Denham said over and over again. “I seem to be always in hospital. There never was such an unlucky beggar.”

I sighed deeply.

“It is miserable work,” I said.

“Yes; and it seems so absurd,” said Denham. “There’s something wrong about it.”

“Of course,” I said; “we’re wounded, and suffering from the shock of what we’ve gone through.”

“Gammon!” said Denham. “That wouldn’t knock us up as it has. We both got awful toppers on the skull; but that wouldn’t have made us so groggy on the legs that we couldn’t stand.”

“Oh, that’s the weakness,” I replied.

“My grandmother! It’s your weakness to say so. We’re made of too good stuff for that. Why, you were as bad as I was when the hospital orderly washed us. Bah! How I do hate being washed by a man!”

“Better than nothing,” I said. “We can’t have women-nurses.”

“No,” said Denham. “But what was I saying when you interrupted so rudely? Really, Val Moray, I shall report your behaviour to the Colonel. You’re not respectful to your officer. You’re always forgetting that you are a private.”

“Always,” I replied, with what was, I fear, a very pitiful smile, for my companion looked at me very sympathetically and shook his head.

“Poor old chap!” he said; “I am sorry for you. There, he shall be disrespectful to his officer when he isn’t on duty. I say, old chap, I wish you and I were far away on the veldt shooting lions again. It’s far better fun than fighting wild Boers.”

“What a poor old joke!” I said.

“Best I can do under these untoward circumstances, dear boy,” he said. “Yes, it’s a ‘wusser.’ I wish I could say something good that would make you laugh. But to ‘return to our muttons,’ as the French say. About being so weak. You and I have no business to shut up like a couple of rickety two-foot rules when we are set up on end. It’s disgusting, and I’m sure it’s old Duncombe’s fault.”

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“Well, I say I am, just by way of argument. It’s all wrong, and I’ve been lying here and thinking out the reason. I’ve got it.”

“I got it without any thinking out at all,” I said.

“Don’t talk so, private. Listen. Now, look here, it’s all Duncombe’s fault.”

“That we’re alive?” I said.

“Pooh! Nonsense! It’s that anti-febrile tonic, as he calls it. It’s my firm belief that he hadn’t the right sort of medicine with him, and he has fudged up something to make shift with.”

“What nonsense!” I said.

“It’s a fact, sir, and I’ll prove it. Now then, where are we hurt?”

“Our heads principally, of course.”

“That’s right, my boy. Then oughtn’t he to have given us something that would have gone straight to our heads?”

“I don’t know,” I said wearily.

“Yes, you do, stupid; I’m telling you. He ought to have given us something that affected our heads, instead of which he has given us physic that has gone to our legs. Now, don’t deny it, for I watched you only this morning, and yours doubled up as badly as mine did. You looked just like a young nipper learning to walk.”

I laughed slightly.

“No, no, don’t do that,” cried my companion in misfortune.

“You were wishing just now that you could make me laugh,” I said, by way of protest.

“Yes, old chap; but I didn’t know then what the consequences would be. It makes you look awful. I say, don’t do it again, or I shall grow horribly low-spirited. You did get knocked about. I say, though, do I look as bad as you do?”

“I believe you look ten times worse,” I said, trying to be cheerful and to do something in the way of retort.

“No, no; but seriously, do I look very bad?”

“Awfully!” I said.

“Oh, I say! Come, now, how do I look?”

“Well, there’s all the skin off your nose, where you scratched against the rock.”

“Ye–es,” he said, patting his nose tenderly; “but it’s scaling over nicely. I say, what a good job I didn’t break the bridge!”

“It was indeed,” I said.

“Well, what else?”

“Your eyes look as if you’d been having a big fight with the bully of the school.”

“Are they still so very much swollen up?”

“More than ever,” I said, in comforting tones.

“But they’re not black?”

“No; only purple and yellow and green.”

“Val,” he cried passionately, “if you go on like that I’ll sit up and punch your head.”

“You can’t,” I replied.

“No, you coward! Oh, if I only could! It’s taking a mean advantage of a fellow. But never mind; I’m going to hear it all. What else?”

“I won’t tell you any more,” I replied.

“You shall. Tell me at once.”

“You don’t want to know about that place on the top of your head, just above your forehead, where you are so fond of parting your hair?”

“Yes, I do. I say, does it look so very bad?”

“Shocking. He has crossed the strips of sticking-plaster over and over, and across and across, till it looks just like a white star.”

“Oh dear,” he groaned, “how horrid! I say, though, has he cut the hair in front very short?”

“Well, not so short as he could have done it with a razor.”

“Val!” he shouted. “It’s too bad.”

“Yes,” I said; “it looks dreadful.”

“No, I mean of you; and if you go on like that again we shall quarrel.”

“Let’s change the conversation, then,” I said. “I say, oughtn’t old Briggs to have been here by now?”

“I don’t know; but you oughtn’t to give a poor weak fellow such a slanging as that.”

“I say,” I said, “you wished we were up the veldt shooting lions.”

“So I do,” replied Denham. “Don’t you?”

“No. I wish you and I were at my home, with old Aunt Jenny to nurse and feed us up with beef-tea and jelly, and eggs beaten up in new milk, and plenty of tea and cream and—”

“Val! Val, old chap! don’t—don’t,” cried Denham; “it’s maddening. Why, we should have feather-beds and beautiful clean sheets.”

“That we should,” I said, with a sigh; “and— Ah! here’s old Briggs.”

“Morning, gents,” said the Sergeant, pulling back the tilt curtain after entering. “Hope you’re both better.”

“Yes, ever so much, Sergeant,” cried Denham. “Here, come and sit down. Light your pipe and smoke.”

“What about the doctor, sir?” said Briggs dubiously.

“Won’t be here for an hour. I’ll give you leave. Fill and light up.”

The Sergeant obeyed orders willingly.

“Now then,” said Denham, “talk away. I want to know exactly how matters stand since yesterday.”

“All right, sir,” said the Sergeant, carefully crushing out the match he had struck, as he smoked away.

“Well, go on,” said Denham impatiently. “You said yesterday that things were as bad as they could possibly be.”

“I did, sir.”

“Well, how are they now?”

“Worse. Ever so much worse.”

“What do you mean, you jolly old muddler?” cried Denham, rousing up and looking brighter than he had been since he came under the doctor’s hands.

“What I say, sir,” replied the Sergeant, staring. “Things are ever so much worse.”

“Val,” cried Denham, turning to me, “poor old Briggs has had so much to do with that scoundrel Moriarty that he has caught his complaint.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” growled the Sergeant stiffly; “I’ve always been faithful to Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Of course you have, Sergeant.”

“Beg pardon, sir. You said I’d caught his complaint, meaning I was turning renegade.”

“Nothing of the kind; but you have caught his national complaint, for there you go again—blundering. Can’t you see?”

“No, sir,” said the Sergeant, drawing himself up stiffer than ever.

“Then you ought to. Blundering—making bulls. If the state of affairs was as bad as it could be yesterday, how can it be worse to-day?”

The Sergeant scratched his head, and his countenance relaxed.

“Oh!” he said thoughtfully, “of course. I didn’t see that at first, gentlemen.”

“Never mind, so long as you see it now. But go ahead, Briggs. You can’t think what it is to be lying here in hospital, with fighting going on all round, and only able to get scraps of news now and then.”

The Sergeant chuckled.

“Here, I don’t see anything to laugh at in that,” cried Denham, frowning. “Do you find it funny?”

“I just do, sir. Think of you talking like that to me? Why, twice over when I was in the Dragoons I was bowled over and had to go into hospital, up north there, in Egypt. Thirsty, gentlemen? I was thirsty, double thirsty, in the nasty sandy country—thirsty for want of water, and twice as thirsty to get to know how things were going on. That’s why I always come, when I’m off duty, to tell you gentlemen all I can.”

“There, Val,” cried Denham, beaming. “Didn’t I always say that old Briggs was a brick?”

“I don’t remember,” I replied.

“Well, I always meant to.—Now then, Sergeant, go ahead.”

“Nay! I don’t want to damp your spirits, sir, seeing how bad you are.”

“I’m not bad, Sergeant; neither is Moray. We’re getting better fast, and news spurs us on to get better as fast as we can. Now then, don’t make us worse by keeping us in suspense. Tell us the worst news at once.”

“That’s soon done, sir. These Doppies, as they call ’em—these Boers—shoot horribly well.”

“Yes,” sighed Denham; “they’ve had so much practice at game.”

“They’ve got so close in now, with their wagons to hide behind, that I’m blessed if it’s safe for a sentry to show his head anywhere.”

“But our fellows have got stone walls to keep behind, and they ought by now to shoot as well as the Boers,” I said.

“That’s quite right, Mr Moray,” cried the Sergeant, angrily puffing at his pipe; “they ought to, but they don’t—not by a long way. Every time they use a cartridge there ought to be one Doppie disabled and sent to the rear. I keep on telling them this fort isn’t Purfleet Magazine nor Woolwich Arsenal; but it’s no good.”

“But, Sergeant,” cried Denham anxiously, “you don’t mean to say that we’re running out of cartridges?”

“But I do mean to say it, sir; and the time isn’t so very far off when we shall either have to hang out the white flag—”

“What!” cried Denham, dragging himself up into a sitting position. “Never!”

“Or,” continued the Sergeant emphatically, “make a sortie and give the beggars cold steel.”

“Ah! that sounds better,” cried Denham, dropping back upon his rough pillow. “That’s what we shall have to do.”

“Right, sir,” cried the Sergeant. “Cold steel’s the thing. I’ve always been a cavalry man, and I’ve seen a bit of service before I came into the Light Horse as drill-sergeant and general trainer. I’ve been through a good deal, and learned a good deal; and I tell you two young men that many a time in a fight I’ve felt wild sitting on horseback here, and trotting off there, dismounting to rest our horses; finding ourselves under fire again, and cantering off somewhere else—into a valley, behind a hill, or to the shelter of a wood, because our time hadn’t come—and the infantry working away all the while. I’m not going to run down the cavalry; they’re splendid in war when they can get their chance to come to close quarters. You see, we haven’t done much with our swords, for the Doppies won’t stand a charge. Where we’ve had them has been dismounted, as riflemen, and that’s what our trouble is now. We can’t get at the enemy; what we want is a regiment of foot with the bayonet. Just a steady advance under such cover as they could find, and then a sharp run in with a good old British cheer, and the Doppies would begin to run. Then we ought to be loosed at them, and every blessed Boer among them would make up his mind that it was quite time he went home to see how his crops are getting on.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Denham gravely; “that’s exactly the way to do it, and that’s what people at home are saying. But we’re shut up here, ammunition is failing, and we have no regiment of foot to give the brutes the cold steel and make them run; so what’s the best thing to do under the circumstances?”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Sergeant’s Notion.

“Ah!” said the Sergeant, tapping the ashes out of his pipe and refilling it; “that’s a bit of a puzzle, sir.”

“Hang out the white flag?” cried Denham bitterly.

“No, sir,” cried the Sergeant fiercely.

“What then?” I said.

“What then, sir?” said Briggs fiercely. “We’ve got plenty of pluck and lots of fight in the boys.”

“Yes,” said Denham, with his eyes flashing. “Plenty of prime beef and good fresh water, Briggs; but scarcely any cartridges.”

“That’s right, sir; and so I took the liberty, when I got a chance, of saying a word to the Colonel.”

“What about?”

“The Doppies’ ammunition-wagons, sir.”

“Ah!” cried Denham, rising to his elbow. “I ventured to say, sir, that the young officer as brought in our supply of provisions would have laid himself flat down on the top o’ the wall and watched with his glass till he had made out where the best spot was, and then after dark he’d have gone out and made a try to capture one of the ammunition-wagons, and brought it in.”

“Impossible, Sergeant,” said Denham.

“Bah! That word isn’t in a soldier’s dictionary, sir. You’d have done it if you’d been well enough.”

“But the cartridges mightn’t fit our rifles, Sergeant.”

“Mightn’t, sir; but they might. Then, if the first lot didn’t, you’d have gone again and again till you had got the right sort. If none of ’em was the right sort, why, you’d ha’ said, ‘There’s more ways of killing a cat than hanging it,’ and gone on another plan.”

“What other plan?” I said sharply. “There is no other plan.”

“Isn’t there?” said the Sergeant, grinning. “They’ve got one wagon that I can swear to, having made it out through the glass Mr Denham lent me, full of spare rifles of the men put out of action.”

“Of course, of course,” cried Denham. “Oh dear! oh dear!” he groaned, falling back again with a pitiful look in his eyes. “I’m lying here, completely done for. Why can’t that doctor put us right?”

The Sergeant smoked on for a few minutes, looking fiercer than ever.

“Where’s Sam Wren, sir?” he said suddenly.

“He was fretting so much last night at being kept in hospital,” I replied, “that the doctor said he might rejoin his troop.”

“Glad of that. He’s one of our best shots. But what’s gone of your blacky, Mr Moray?”

“Joeboy? I don’t know,” I said. “Isn’t he with the horses? Oh, of course he’d be looking after mine.”

“He ain’t, then,” said the Sergeant.

“What!” I cried excitedly; “then what about my horse? I’ve been lying here thinking of nothing but myself. I ought to have seen to him.”

“Couldn’t,” said the Sergeant dryly. “But he’s all right.”

“Are you sure?” I cried.

The Sergeant nodded. “I saw to him myself. I like that horse.”

“Oh Sergeant!” I said, with a feeling of relief. “But what about Joeboy? I did wonder once why he had not been to see me.”

“I didn’t look after him, sir,” said the Sergeant. “He’s a sort of free-lancer, and not under orders.”

“But when did you see him last?” I asked.

“Well, I’m a bit puzzled about that. I say, hear that?”

“Hear them? Yes, of course,” said Denham angrily. “The brutes! The cowards! Oh, if I were only well!”

“Oh, let ’em alone, sir,” said the Sergeant coolly as, beginning with a few scattered shots, the firing outside had rapidly increased. “They’re doing no harm. Do you know what it is?”

“Our poor fellows exposing themselves thoughtlessly, I suppose,” said Denham bitterly.

“Only their hats, sir. It’s about the only pleasure the poor lads have. It’s a game they have for pennies. Some one invented it yesterday. Six of ’em play, and put on a penny each. Each game lasts five minutes, and the players put their hats upon the top of a stone. Then the man who has most bullets through his hat takes the pool.”

“What folly!” said Denham fretfully.

“Well, as I told them, sir, it isn’t good for their hats; but, as they said, it wastes the Doppies’ cartridges, and pleases the lads to make fools of ’em. You can hear them cheer sometimes when a hat is suddenly pulled down. They think they’ve killed a man—bless ’em! They’re very nice people.”

“But, Sergeant, you were telling me about Joeboy,” I said. “Can’t you think when you saw him last?”

“Not exactly. I’ve been trying to think it out, because I expected you’d be asking about him. It strikes me that the last I saw of him was the night I was going the rounds after the search for that Irish prisoner. Perhaps he’s tired of being shut up?”

“No,” I said emphatically.

“Those blacks are men who are very fond of running wild.”

“Joeboy wouldn’t forsake me, Sergeant,” I said impressively.

“Perhaps you’re right. He always did seem very fond of you—never happy unless he was at your heels; but he hasn’t been hanging about the hospital, you see. It looks like as if that Irishman had given him a crack on the head too, and pitched him down one of the mine-holes.”

“Oh no; horrible!” I said.

“Glad you take it that way,” said Briggs grimly, “because it would be bad for the water. Well, there’s only two other things I can think of just now. One’s that he might have been shot by the enemy when driving in the cattle.”

“Is it possible?” I said, in alarm.

“Well, yes, it’s possible,” said the Sergeant; “but I didn’t hear any one hint at such a thing happening.”

“Oh, surely the poor fellow hasn’t come to his end like that! Here, what was your other idea?”

“I thought that, being a keen, watchful sort of fellow, perhaps he might have caught sight of our prisoner escaping.”

“Ah!” I ejaculated.

“Yes; and knowing what I do of my gentleman, it seemed likely that he might have followed him just to see that he didn’t get into more mischief, particularly if he saw him upset you two.”

“No, no; he couldn’t. We saw no sign of him,” I said excitedly.—“Did you, Denham?”

“Who could see a fellow like that in the dark?” cried Denham peevishly.

“It is possible that, knowing what he did of Moriarty’s treatment of me, he may have felt that he had a kind of feud with him, and watched him.”

“For a chance to say something to him with one of those spears he carried,” said Denham, suddenly growing interested in our remarks.

“Oh no. I don’t think he would use his assagai except in an emergency.”

“That would be an emergency,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve thought it out over my pipe, and this is what I make of it: he has followed Master Moriarty, and I expect that we shall never hear of him again.”

“What! Joeboy?” I cried.

“No; Master Moriarty.”

“But that would be murder—assassination,” I cried.

“You can use what fine words you like over it,” said the Sergeant gruffly; “but I call it, at a time like this, war; and when Mr Joe Black comes back—as I expect he will, soon—and you ask him, he’ll say he was only fighting for his master; and that’s you.”

I was silenced for the moment, though my ideas were quite opposed to the Sergeant’s theory.

But Denham spoke out at once.

“That’s all very well, Sergeant,” he said, “but Mr Moray’s black boy is about as savage over his ideas of justice as he is over his ideas of decency in dress. He looks upon this man as an enemy, and his master’s enemy; and if he overtakes Moriarty he won’t have a bit of scruple about sticking his spear through him.”

“And serve him jolly well right, sir.”

“No, no; that won’t do,” said Denham.

“Not at all,” I cried, recovering my balance a little.

“But isn’t he a renegade, sir?” said the Sergeant.

“We call him so,” replied Denham.

“And didn’t he attack you two and try to murder you, sir, just as he did poor Sam Wren?”

“Yes, I grant all that, Sergeant; but we’re not savages. Now, suppose you had gone in chase of this man, and say you had caught him. Would you have put your revolver to his head and blown out his brains?”

“That ain’t a fair question, sir,” said the Sergeant gruffly; “and all I’ve got to say is, that I’m very glad, knowing what I do, that I wasn’t in pursuit of him, sword in hand.”

“You mean to say that you would have cut him down?” I cried.

“I don’t mean to say anything at all, Mr Private Moray, only that I’ve got my feelings as a soldier towards cowards. There, I won’t say another word.”

“Then I’ll speak for you,” said Denham. “You wouldn’t have cut the scoundrel down, nor shot him, but you’d have done your duty as trained soldiers do. You’d have taken him prisoner, and brought him in to the Colonel.”

“And he’d have had him put up against the nearest wall before a dozen rifles and shot for a murderous traitor, sir.”

“But not without a court-martial first, Briggs,” said Denham sternly.

“I suppose you’re right, sir; but I don’t see what comfort a trial by court-martial can be to a man who knows that he’s sure to be found guilty and shot.”

“But not till he has been justly condemned,” I put in.

“Like to know any more about what’s going on round about the fort, sir?” said the Sergeant, after giving me a queer look.

“Yes, of course,” cried Denham.

“Well, not much, sir. Colonel’s always going round about to see that the men don’t expose themselves, and I expect that at any time there’ll be orders given that neither the horses nor the bullocks are to be driven out to graze.”

“Then they are all driven out?” I said.

“Of course, sir. We couldn’t keep the bullocks alive without.”

“I wonder the Boers don’t shoot them,” I said.

“Don’t like shooting their own property,” said the Sergeant, with a grin. “They’re always hoping they’ll get ’em back; but they’ll have to look sharp if they do, for if they’re much longer we shall have eaten the lot.”

“Take some time to do that, Sergeant,” said Denham, laughing.

“Not such a very long time, sir. You see, the men have nothing but water to drink; tobacco’s getting scarce; there’s no bread, no coffee, no vegetables; and the men have very little to do but rub down their horses to keep ’em clear of ticks: the consequence is that they try to make up for it all by keeping on eating beef, and then sleeping as hard as ever they can.”

“I don’t know what we can do unless we cut our way through the enemy,” said Denham sadly. “I go on thinking the matter over and over, and always come back to the same idea.”

“No wonder,” said the Sergeant. “That is the only way; so the sooner you two get fit to mount the better, for I don’t see that anything can be done till then.”

“Are there any more—cripples?” said Denham bitterly.

“Oh, there’s a few who’d be off duty if things were right,” said the Sergeant cheerfully; “but they make shift. The Colonel limps a bit, and uses his sword like a walking-stick; six have got arms in slings, and four or five bullet-scratches and doctor’s patches about ’em; but there isn’t a man who doesn’t show on parade and isn’t ready to ride in a charge.”

“But riding,” I said, with the eagerness of one who is helpless—“what about the horses?”

“All in fine condition, gentlemen,” said the Sergeant emphatically, “but a bit too fine, and they look thin. The Colonel’s having ’em kept down so that they shan’t get too larky from having no work to do.”

“But they’re not sent out to graze now?” I said.

“Oh yes, regularly.”

“Then why don’t the Boers shoot them, so as to make them helpless?”

The Sergeant chuckled.

“Colonel’s too smart for them,” he said. “The bullocks are sent out in the day with a strong guard on foot to keep behind the oxen, but the horses go out as soon as it’s dark, every one with his man to lead him, and all ready for an attack. Ah! but it’s miserable work, and I shall be very glad when you two gentlemen are ready to mount again, so that we can go.”

“You’ll have to go without us, Briggs,” said Denham sadly. “I don’t suppose the Boers will shoot us if we’re taken prisoners.”

“That’s just what the Colonel’s likely to do, sir. It’s his regular way with his men. I must be off now, though. Time’s up. You’ll like to see this, though, Mr Denham?”

The Sergeant began to fumble in his pouch, bringing out several cartridges before he found what he wanted—a dirty-looking piece of milky quartz.

“What have you got there?” we asked in a breath.

“Stuff the men are finding in a hole at the back of the cook’s fireplace.”

“Why, it’s gold ore,” I said eagerly.

“Nonsense! What do you know about it?” said Denham, turning the lump over in his hand.

“I know because pieces like that are in the kopje near my home. Joeboy could find plenty like that. He took some to my father once, and father said it was gold.”

“Then you’ve got a mine on your farm?”

“I suppose so; but father said we’d better get rich by increasing the flocks and herds. Look there,” I said; “all those are veins of gold, and those others are crystals and scales.”

“There, catch, Sergeant,” said Denham bitterly. “We don’t want gold; we want health, and a way out of this prison.”

“That’s right, sir; and if you like I’ll try and come and tell you how things are going to-night.”

“Yes, do,” cried Denham. Then the Sergeant thrust his piece of gold ore and quartz back into his pouch, and marched away.

“Val, old chap,” said Denham as soon as we were alone, “that fellow seemed to cheer me up a bit while he was here.”

“Yes,” I said; “he roused me up too.”

“But now he’s gone I’m down again lower and lower than ever I was before. I begin to wish I were dead. Oh dear! who’d be a wounded man who feels as helpless as a child?”

I was silent.

“Is that doctor ever coming to see us again?”

“Yes,” said a sharp, clear voice. “Now then, most impatient of all patients, how are you getting on?”

“Getting ready for the firing-party to waste a few cartridges over, doctor. Can’t you see?”

“Humph!” said our visitor, feeling the poor fellow’s head and then his pulse. “Here, drink a little of this.”

“More physic?” groaned Denham despondently.

“Yes, Nature’s,” replied the doctor, holding out a folding cup which he had refilled. “Fresh water; a bucket just brought to the screen there by the orderly.”

As he spoke he raised the poor fellow up with one arm and held the cup to his lips.

Denham took a few drops unwillingly, then a little more, and finally finished the cupful with avidity, while the sight of my companion drinking seemed to produce a strange, feverish sensation in my throat.

The next minute the doctor had let Denham sink down, and refilled the cup and handed it to me. It was delicious, and I drained the little vessel all too soon. Then I was gently lowered, and the doctor repeated the dose with us both.

“That’s better,” he said quietly. “You two fellows have been talking too much; now shut your eyes and have a good long sleep.”

“What! in the middle of the day?” protested Denham.

“Yes. Nature wants all your time now for healing your damaged places. No more talking. I’ll come again by-and-by.”

“How absurd!” said Denham as soon as the tilt had fallen back to its place. “I can’t sleep now. Can you?”

“Impossible,” I said, and I lay looking up at the long slit of blue sky over the wagon-tilt. Then I was looking at something black as ink, and beyond it the slit of blue sky was fiery orange.

“Joeboy?” I said wonderingly.

“Um? Yes, Boss,” was the reply.

“How long have you been here?”

“Um? Long, long time. Boss Val been very fass asleep.”

“Hist! Is Mr Denham asleep?” I whispered.

“Um? Very fass; not move once.”

I was silent for a few moments, struggling mentally to say something, I could not tell what.

“Boss Val like drink o’ water?” said the black just then.

“Yes—no. Ah, I remember now,” I cried eagerly, for it all came back. “Where have you been all this time?”

The black smiled.

“Um? Been to see Boss and Aunt Jenny.”

“You have?” I cried eagerly. “But stop a moment. You went after that Irish captain?”

The black nodded, and, to my horror, his face contracted and his lips drew away from his white teeth, but not in a grin.

I lay back looking at him wildly, and as I gazed in his eyes the appearance of his countenance made me shudder just then, lit up by the fiery glow of the sunset which flooded the place through the openings above the tilt. It seemed to me horrible, and for a long time I could not speak. At last the words came:

“Did you know that he struck down Mr Denham, and nearly killed us both?”

“Um? Yes. Soldiers tell Joeboy.”

“And you followed him?”

“Um? Yes,” came, accompanied by a nod.

“And you’ve killed him with your assagai?” I said, with a shudder, as I glanced at where three of the deadly weapons lay at the side of my rough couch, across his shield.

“Um? No. Nearly kill Joeboy.”

“Ah!” I cried, with a curious feeling of relief.

“Joeboy run after him all away among the Doppies; when they shoot, Joeboy lie down, and then follow um till he see um. Then he shoot, and—look here.”

Joeboy held up his left arm, smiling, and I saw that it was roughly tied up with a piece of coarse homespun.

“He wounded you?”

“Um? Yes. Shot pistol, and make hole here.”

“And he got away unhurt?”

“Um? Yes; this time,” said the black. “Next time Joeboy make hole froo um somewhere. Hate um.”

“But your wound?” I said. “Is it bad?”

“Um? Only little hole. Soon grow up again.”

“Now tell me, how are all the people at home—my father, my aunt, and Bob?”

Joeboy shook his head.

“What do you mean?” I said. “Haven’t you seen them?”

“Um? No; all gone right away. Doppies been and burnt all up. All gone.”

“What’s that?” said Denham, who had been awakened by our talking—“the Boers have been and burnt up that jolly old farm?”

“Um? Yes, Boss. All gone.”

“The brutes!”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

The Doctor’s Dose.

“Look here, Denham,” said the doctor; “you’re an ill-tempered, ungrateful, soured, discontented young beggar. You deserve to surfer.—And as for you, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “you’re not much better.”

That was when we were what the doctor called convalescent—that is to say, it was about a fortnight after our terrible experience in the old mine-shaft, and undoubtedly fast approaching the time when we might return to duty.

“Anything else, sir?” said Denham sharply.

I said nothing, but I winced.

“I dare say I could find a few more adjectives to illustrate your character, sir,” said the doctor rather pompously; “but I think that will do.”

“So do I, sir,” said Denham; “but let me tell you that you don’t allow for our having to lie helpless here fretting our very hearts out because we can’t join the ranks.”

“There you go again, sir,” cried the doctor. “Always grumbling. Look at you both; wounds healing up.”

“Ugh!” cried Denham. “Mine are horrid.” I winced again.

“Your muscles are recovering their tone.”

“I can hardly move without pain,” groaned Denham. I screwed up my face in sympathy.

“Your bruises dying out.”

“Doctor!” shouted Denham, “do you think I haven’t looked at myself? I’m horrible.”

This time I groaned.

“How do you know? You haven’t got a looking-glass, surely?”

“No; but I’ve seen my wretched face in a bucket of water,” cried Denham.

“Bah! Conceited young puppy! And compared notes, too, both of you, I’ll be bound.”

“Of course we have, lying about here with nothing to do but suffer and fret. You don’t seem to do us a bit of good.”

“What!” cried the doctor. “Why, if it hadn’t been for me you’d have had no faces at all worth looking at. Most likely— There, there, there! I won’t get into a temper with you both, and tell you what might have happened.”

“Both would have died, and a good job too,” cried Denham bitterly.

“Come, come!” said the doctor gently; “don’t talk like that. I know, I know. It has been very hard to bear, and you both have been rather slow at getting strong again. But be reasonable. This hasn’t been a proper hospital, and it isn’t now a convalescent home, where I could coax you both back into health and strength. I’ve no appliances or medicines worth speaking about, and I must confess that the diet upon which I am trying to feed you up is not perfect.”

“Perfect, Val!” cried Denham. “Just listen to him. Everything is horrible.”

“Quite right, my dear boy,” said the doctor; “it is.”

“The bread— Ugh! It always tastes of burnt bones and skin and grease.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, with a sigh; “but that’s all the fuel we have for heating the oven now the wagons are burned.”

“Then the soup, or beef-tea, or whatever you call it. I don’t know which is worst—that which is boiled up in a pannikin or the nauseous mess made by soaking raw beef in a bucket of water.”

“But it is warmed afterwards, my dear boy,” said the doctor, “and it is extremely nutritious.”

“Ugh!” shuddered Denham. “What stuff for a poor fellow recovering from wounds! I can’t and I won’t take any more of it.”

The doctor smiled, and looked hard at the grumbler.

“Won’t you, Denham?” he said. “Oh yes, you will; and you’re going to have bits of steak to-day, frizzled on ramrods.”

“Over a bone fire!” cried Denham. “I’m sick of it all.”

“Come, come, come! you’re getting ever so much stronger, both of you.”

“But are we really, doctor?” I said; “or are you saying this to cheer us up?”

“Ask yourselves, boys. You know as well as I do that you are. Climb up on the wall this morning and sit in the sunshine; but mind you keep well in shelter. I don’t want one of the Boers to undo in a moment what has taken me so long to do.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Denham dismally. “We’re poor sort of machines—always getting out of order.”

“Have you two been falling out?” said the doctor, turning to me.

“No,” I said; “we haven’t had a word. Denham’s in rather a bad temper this morning.”

“Why, you impudent beggar!” he cried, “for two pins I’d punch your head.”

“Bravo!” cried the doctor. “Here, I’ll give ’em to you. Humph! No; only got one. Stop a minute; I’ll give you a needle out of my case instead. Will that do?”

“Look here, doctor,” cried Denham; “I can’t stand chaff now.”

“Chaff, my dear boy? I’m in earnest. That’s right; go at him. Have a really good fight. It will do you good.”

“Bah!” cried Denham, as he saw me laughing. “Here, come along up to the wall, Val. I don’t want to fall out with the doctor any more.”

“That you don’t,” said that gentleman, offering his hand. “There, good-morning, patients. I know. But cheer up. I like that bit of spirit Denham showed just now. It was a splendid sign. You’ll eat the grill when it comes?”

He did not wait for an answer, but bustled away, Denham looking after him till he was out of hearing.

“I wish I hadn’t been so snappish with him,” he said rather remorsefully. “He has done a lot for us.”

“Heaps,” I said.

“And we must seem very ungrateful.”

“He knows how fretful weak people can be,” I said. “Come, let’s get up into the sunshine.”

For I was having hard work with poor Denham in those days. His sufferings had affected him in a curious way. He was completely soured, and a word or two, however well meant, often sent him into a towering rage. Even then I had to temporise, for he turned impatiently away.

“Hang the sunshine!” he said.

“But it will do you good,” I said.

“I don’t want to get any good. It only makes me worse. I shall stop down here in the shade.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “for I wanted to be up in the fresh air this morning.”

“Oh, well, if you want to go I’ll come with you.”

“Yes, do,” I said; and we went out into the great court, where the horses were fidgeting, and biting and kicking at one another, and being shouted at by the men, who were brushing away at their coats to get them into as high a state of perfection as possible. There were the bullocks too, sadly reduced in numbers, and suggesting famine if some new efforts were not made.

“Don’t stop looking about,” said Denham peevishly. “How worn and shabby the men look! It gives me the horrors.”

I followed him, but after his remark I gave a sharp look at the groups of men we passed, especially one long double line going through the sword exercise and pursuing-practice under the instructions of Sergeant Briggs; and as, at every barked-out order, the men made their sabre-blades flash in the sunshine, I felt a thrill as of returning strength run through me; but I noticed how thin, though still active and strong, the fellows looked.

We climbed up the rugged stones, which had gradually been arranged till the way was pretty easy, and reached the top of the wall, now protected by a good breastwork high enough to enable our sentries to keep well under cover.

It was very bright and breezy up there; but Denham did not seem disposed to sit down quietly and rest in the sun, for he stepped up at once to where he could gaze over the breastwork, resting his elbows on the stones and his chin upon his hands.

“Hi, Denham! don’t do that,” I said. “It’s not safe.”

“Bah! I want to look out for those ammunition-wagons old Briggs was talking about.”

“But—” I began, and then I was silent, for Joeboy had followed us up, and seeing Denham’s perilous position, he stepped up behind him, put his hands to his waist, and lifted him down as if he had been a child.

“How dare— Oh, it’s you, Blackie,” he said, laughing.

It was a strange laugh, and I could see that the poor fellow had a peculiar look in his eyes. For as Joeboy snatched more than lifted him down, ping, whiz, the humming of two bullets went so close to his head on either side that he winced twice—to right and to left; and crack, crack came the reports of the rifles fired from the Boer lines opposite.

“Doppie want to shoot Boss Denham,” said Joeboy coolly. “Shoot straight.”

“Yes, they shoot straight,” said Denham; “but I didn’t think— I don’t know, though; perhaps I did think. I say, Val,” he added in a strange, inconsequent way, as if rather ashamed of his recklessness, “that was rather near—wasn’t it?”

“Why do you act like that?” I said reproachfully.

“I suppose it was out of bravado,” he replied, seeming to return to his old manner again. “I wanted to show the brutes the contempt I feel for them.”

“You only made them laugh to see how quickly your head disappeared when they fired.”

“How do you know?” he said sharply.

“Because that’s exactly what they would do,” I replied.

Denham frowned, and turned to Joeboy.

“Here,” he said, “put up that big stone on the edge there.”

The black obeyed, and then Denham pointed to another.

“Put that one beside it, and leave just room between them for me to peer out. I want to see whether it’s possible to do as you did, Val, and bring out a wagon of cartridge-boxes.”

Joeboy raised first one and then another great stone upon the edge as he was told, and Denham stepped up directly to look between them, but bobbed his head and stepped down again directly, for spat, spat, spat, three rifle-bullets struck the stones and fell rattling down.

Denham looked sharply towards me, frowning angrily; but I met his eyes without shrinking.

“I wish I wasn’t so nervous,” he said, by way of apology. “It’s from being weak, I suppose.”

“It’s enough to make a strong man shrink,” I said. “Don’t look again. The next bullet may come between the stones and hit you.”

“But I must look,” he said angrily. “It’s quite time you and I did something to help.”

“If you are hit it will do every one else harm instead of good.”

He turned upon me fiercely, but calmed down directly.

“Yes,” he said; “I suppose you’re right. Oh, here’s the Sergeant coming up. He has done drilling, I suppose.”

The Sergeant announced that this was so directly after joining us.

“The boys are getting splendid with the sword now,” he said, seating himself upon a block of stone and wiping his moist brow; “but it’s dreary work not being able to get them to work.”

“Tell the Colonel to get them all out, then, and make a charge. We ought to be able to scatter this mob.”

“So we could, sir,” said the Sergeant gruffly, “but they won’t give us a chance. If they’d make a mob of themselves we’d soon scatter them, numerous as they are; but it’s of no use to talk; we can’t charge wagons and rifle-pits. It wouldn’t be fair to the lads. Why, they’d empty half our saddles before we got up to them, and then it would be horrible work to get through. No, it can’t be done, Mr Denham, and you know it as well as I do.”

“No, I don’t,” said my companion stubbornly. “It ought to be done. Once we were all through, the enemy would take to flight.”

“Once we were all through,” said the Sergeant, with a grim chuckle; “but that’s it. How many would get through? Now, just put it another way, sir. Say there’s only six or seven of them out there, and there’s one on our side. That’s about how it stands as to numbers. Very well; say you lead that charger of yours out. The Boers see what’s going to happen directly, and the minute you’re up in the saddle they begin to fire at you—the whole seven.”

“You said six,” cried Denham.

“Six or seven, sir. Well, let it be six. Don’t you think it very likely that one out of the six Doppies would manage to hit you?”

Denham frowned and remained silent, while Joeboy sat all of a heap, his arms round his knees, watching the Sergeant, and I saw his ears twitch as if he were trying hard to grasp the whole of the non-com’s theory.

“You think not, sir?” continued Briggs. “Well, I don’t agree with you. They’d hit you perhaps before you got far; they’d hit you for certain, you or your horse, before you got close up; and let me tell you that the chances would be ever so much worse if we were galloping up to them in line.”

“Yes, you’re right, Sergeant,” said Denham slowly. “It would be murder, and the chief couldn’t, in justice to the men, call upon them to charge. But they’d follow us,” he added excitedly.

“Follow their officers, sir? Of course they would, and some of ’em would get through.”

“Gloriously,” cried Denham.

“Well, I suppose some of those fine writers who make history would call it glorious; but I should call it horrible waste of good stuff. It wouldn’t do, sir—it wouldn’t do, for there’d be nothing to gain by it. If we could make an opening in the enemy’s lines and put ’em a bit into disorder, so as to give a chance for another regiment to slip in and rout ’em, it would be splendid; but to do it your way would be just chucking good men’s lives away.”

“Yes, yes, Sergeant; you’re right, and the Colonel’s right, and I’m all wrong. I know better; but my head got so knocked about by that renegade Irishman and my fall down that hole that it doesn’t work right yet.”