d upon me in a rage, with his revolver raised.

"Bah!" he cried. Then a change came over him, and he turned to look
back at the enemy. "Can you run?" he said. "I can't; my right leg's
cut."

That was plain enough, for his breeches were gashed above the knee, and
there was a great patch of blood spreading.

"Yes, I can run," I said stubbornly; "but I won't."

"You shall," he said, as he thrust his foot into the stirrup and swung
himself up on Sandho's back. "Now then, on my right here. Catch hold
of the holster-strap, and we'll escape together, or fall: the brave lad
and the fool."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

I HAVE MY DOUBTS.

"Too late; too late," I muttered through my teeth as, sword in hand, I
made a bound to keep up with Sandho, who dashed forward. It was lucky
for me I did so; as it was, I nearly lost my hold. The poor beast had
been sadly punished in the melee; and between temper and dread he was
hardly controllable, and bearing hard against the curb in a wild desire
to rush off. In fact, I fully expected at any moment to be shaken from
my grasp, as, oddly enough, even in that time of peril, I recalled the
gymnastic sport of giant strides of my schooldays, and held on; but I
was certain we were now too late, and that it was only a matter of
moments before we should be overtaken and cut down or taken prisoners by
a strong party of the Boers who were in full pursuit.

Then my exaltation increased, and I thought that Sandho would be able to
go faster if relieved of my clinging hand, and so save the Colonel; and
in another instant I should have let go, when--as he told me
afterwards--the Colonel seemed to divine my thoughts, and I felt his
sword strike against my back as it hung loosely by the knot to his
wrist, while his strong right hand was thrust under and gripped my
leather cartridge-belt.

"Hold on tightly, my lad, and we'll do it somehow," he cried.

These words drove all the heroic thoughts out of my brain, and I tried
to look back to see how near our pursuers were; but I could not turn my
head round, but only listen to the shouts, while _crack, crack, crack_
came the reports of rifles--badly aimed by the mounted men, who fired
from the saddle, holding their weapons pistol-wise--the bullets from
which went whizzing and buzzing past our ears.

"It's all over," I thought, and a deep sense of depression was coming on
at the thought of the Colonel falling wounded and a prisoner into the
Boers'