too,
with the roar and din and confusion. Yet--what is this? Nearer and
nearer comes that volleying roll, nearer and nearer the rumble of
unmistakable horse-hoofs, and, as with incredible swiftness the last
remaining savages flit away into the mist, such a ringing cheer goes up
from all within the stockade that hardly the hell of the recent battle
rout can have surpassed it for volume.

It is answered, and now out of the smother, other forms appear--the
forms of armed horsemen; and still the darkling mist is rent ever and
anon by a spurt of flame, as these descry a belated body of fleeing
warriors not sufficiently quick to take themselves out of sight and
range.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

"WHERE IS HE?"

Clare Vidal's beautiful eyes are strained upon the farthest limits of
vision in a certain direction, and, not for the first time, the thought
rather than the utterance, expressed by these three words, passes
through her mind--

"Where is he?"

The day is one of cloudless beauty. With the arrival--the timely
arrival--of the relieving force an hour or so ago, the mist had suddenly
rolled back; retreating as though still to curtain their flight,
simultaneously with the demoralised Matabele. The said relieving
force--which was made up of a company of Green's Scouts, and a number of
mounted men who had volunteered to patrol the Buluwayo road, and warn
and assist all who should be in danger--had forthwith started in hot
pursuit. They were going to keep that impi on the run, they declared,
even if it had to run to--well, a certain place that shall be nameless,
but which is popularly understood to lie within the torrid zone. With
them had gone Lamont. Clare was a little sore at heart, a little
reproachful, as she stood there outside the stockade, gazing wistfully
out over the roll of the veldt. Why had he left her just then? There
was no necessity for it. Had he not borne himself as a very hero in
that awful fight which seemed to have lasted a year, though in point of
actual time it lasted considerably less than an hour; what necessity
then could there be for him to give further evidence of his prowess?
They two had but been snatched back from the portal of Death, had even
felt his cold blast together--why then, could he not have remained by
her at such a moment? For the life of her she could not but feel
conscious of a certain soreness.

Since the relief Clare had been by no means idle; for, conquering he