scene of action,
flung themselves into the fray with a whole-heartedness that left
nothing to be desired. The fight became one roaring general _melee_.

"It's only a faction rumpus," said the hotel-keeper, who had dived into
an inner room to arm himself with a revolver, which, however, he didn't
show. "Sandili's and Ndimba's chaps are always getting 'em up. Rotten
for me too, for it gives my place a bad name."

The stoep, railed off, stood about four feet above the ground. In front
the said ground, perfectly open, sloped away gently to a _sluit_,
constituting a first-rate arena for a rough-and-tumble. Round on to
this now, the warring savages swirled, mad with fury and blood lust,
some with drink. The three white men--four now--for they had been
joined by MacFennel's assistant, who had prudently locked the canteen
door--stood on the stoep watching the tumult.

"How about the rifles, Greenoak?" said Dick Selmes, in hardly to be
repressed excitement.

"No. We mustn't show sign of scare," was the quiet answer. "We've got
our pistols, but we needn't show them unless absolutely necessary."

The struggling crowd now had broken up into groups. No attempt at
forming sides had been made, twos and threes they fought, and as soon as
one individual went down the victors proceeded to batter the life out of
him as he lay, unless others sprang to the rescue, which was often the
case. Then there would be a renewed scrimmage, with slashings and
parryings, and soon the ground was scattered with writhing, struggling
bodies, and others, indeed, deadly still; the while the strident war
whistles rent the air. Black, striving demons, eyes blazing and white
teeth bared, seemed to have taken the place of the careless laughing
groups of a few minutes ago.

On the left, some thirty yards away from the stoep, where stood the
white spectators, was a small orchard, bounded by a low sod wall. For
this, one Kafir, hardly pressed, was seen to make, with three others hot
on his heels. He gained it, but his foot caught, tumbling him headlong
into the ditch on the other side. With a yell his pursuers were on him,
and although the spectators could not see him, the nasty crunch of the
knob-kerries battering out his brains and his life, told its own tale.
Dick Selmes, who had never seen any real bloodshed before, began to feel
rather sick.

"Can't we stop this, Greenoak?" he said, rather quaveringly, as a big
savage, hotly pursued by f