[Dutch,
"Murderer's Peak"] a tragical spot so named on account of the surprise
and massacre of a party of officers who had incautiously ventured up
there in small force during one of the previous wars. The village was
virtually the headquarters of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, the
substantial square barracks, which harboured the artillery troop of that
useful force, crowning the hill nearly a mile away, and there was
generally another troop or two quartered around the place. The main
road from King Williamstown to the Transkeian territories ran through
the village.

At the period of our story, however, there was no lack of life or stir
about the normally sleepy little place, for it was in process of
transformation into a huge _laager_ or armed camp. Waggons were coming
in from several directions--laden mostly with the families and household
goods of fleeing settlers, and the sharp crack of whips and the harsh
yells of their drivers rose high above the general turmoil. Men were
bustling to and fro, bent upon nothing in particular and looking as
though each and all carried the fate of a nation in his pockets, or
standing, in knots at street corners, discussing the situation, each
perchance with a little less knowledge than his neighbour. All sorts of
wild rumours were in the air, the least of which was that every white in
the Transkei had been massacred, and that Kreli was marching upon Komgha
at the head of the whole Gcaleka army.

Mrs Hoste, with her two young daughters, were at the door as the party
drove up. They received Eanswyth very cordially.

"At last--at last! Why, we have been looking out for you for the last
hour. I declare, I began to think you had stayed too long at Anta's
Kloof, and the Kafirs had taken you prisoner or something. How do you
do, Mr Milne? But--come in. We are going to have a dreadful storm in
a minute. Mercy on us! What a flash!"

The blue, steely gleam was followed by a roll of thunder, long, loud,
reverberating. There was a patter upon the zinc roof. A few raindrops,
nearly as large as saucers, splashed around, and then, almost before the
two men could get into their waterproof coats, the rain descended with a
roar and a rush, in such a deluge that they could hardly see to outspan
the trap.

"_Allamaghtaag_! but that's a fine rain," cried Hoste, with a farmer's
appreciation, as he swung himself free of his dripping mackintosh in the
little veranda.

"Especia