e could take cover.
But what I feared much more than this, or even than the reedy banks of
the stream along which they could creep out of reach of our bullets, was
a sloping stretch of land behind us, covered with thick grass and scrub
and rising to a crest about two hundred yards away. Now if the Arabs got
round to this crest they would fire straight into our _boma_ and make it
untenable. Also if the wind were in their favour, they might burn us out
or attack under the clouds of smoke. As a matter of fact, by the special
mercy of Providence, none of these things happened, for a reason which I
will explain presently.

In the case of a night, or rather a dawn attack, I have always found
that hour before the sky begins to lighten very trying indeed. As a rule
everything that can be done is done, so that one must sit idle. Also
it is then that both the physical and the moral qualities are at their
lowest ebb, as is the mercury in the thermometer. The night is dying,
the day is not yet born. All nature feels the influence of that hour.
Then bad dreams come, then infants wake and call, then memories of
those who are lost to us arise, then the hesitating soul often takes its
plunge into the depths of the Unknown. It is not wonderful, therefore,
that on this occasion the wheels of Time drave heavily for me. I knew
that the morning was at hand by many signs. The sleeping bearers turned
and muttered in their sleep, a distant lion ceased its roaring and
departed to its own place, an alert-minded cock crew somewhere, and our
donkeys rose and began to pull at their tether-ropes. As yet, however,
it was quite dark. Hans crept up to me; I saw his wrinkled, yellow face
in the light of the watch-fire.

"I smell the dawn," he said and vanished again.

Mavovo appeared, his massive frame silhouetted against the blackness.

"Watcher-by-Night, the night is done," he said. "If they come at all,
the enemy should soon be here."

Saluting, he too passed away into the dark, and presently I heard the
sounds of spear-blades striking together and of rifles being cocked.

I went to Stephen and woke him. He sat up yawning, muttered something
about greenhouses; then remembering, said:

"Are those Arabs coming? We are in for a fight at last. Jolly, old
fellow, isn't it?"

"You are a jolly old fool!" I answered inconsequently; and marched off
in a rage.

My mind was uneasy about this inexperienced young man. If anything
should happen to him,