ning house, and
no other food had he. While thus occupied, a sound as of the faint
tramping of feet in the distance recalled all his instincts of
self-preservation. But he needed to take no second look. Mounted
figures crested the sky line--whites--who, to the number of a score and
a half, were cantering rapidly towards the still smoking ruins. Then
Roden got out and filled his pipe, and having lighted it, sat down on
the sod wall and calmly began to blow a cloud.

"Great Scott, Musgrave! is that you or your ghost?" cried Darrell, who
was riding at the head of the party. "Why, what on earth has happened
to you all this while, man?"

"It's me, I believe, but I'm not quite sure of it even now," answered
Roden. "And, Darrell, and you fellows, look there. If you had been
spending the night lying bunched up in that corner, while John Kaffir
was hooraying around a blazing house fifty yards off, and when he had
quit that, jumping right over you, and even on to you, on his way to eat
peaches, why, you wouldn't be quite sure of it either."

Then followed explanations, and how the runaway steed had returned
straight to camp, and had been at once recognised by more than one
citizen of Doppersdorp there under arms; and how Darrell had been able
to collect a patrol, and start post-haste in search of so perilously
situated a fellow-countryman as one afoot in the middle of the hostile
ground. And all stared open-mouthed as Roden narrated all that had
befallen him, including his narrow escape from the deserted house. But
of the cause which effected that timely flight he said nothing.

"Well, Musgrave, and which way did they go?" said Darrell, when he had
done.

"Who?"

"Why, the Kaffirs, of course. We'll go and give 'em hell."

"Darrell, get down into that ditch, there where I was. Tuck your head
under your wing, and hold your very breath, and then see how competent
you are to form a judgment as to the direction in which any given crowd
has retreated."

"Well, we can spoor them."

"I wouldn't. They've got hours of start; besides, they're beastly
numerous, and you're not. No, let them alone."

Now the extent of the above start, eke of the numerical strength of the
enemy, was an exaggeration, and one of set design. Tom, _alias_
Geunkwe, had kept strict faith with him, and Roden Musgrave did not want
that honourable savage to be shot or captured, if by a moderate stretch
of veracity he could prevent it.

C