hich had befriended them by concealing their weakness, now lifted
entirely, dispelled by a brilliant flash of sunlight. In a few moments
the whole situation stood revealed. They were in a sort of labyrinth
between low stony kopjes, and not one of the main body was in sight.
With a very roar of hate and exultation, the whole mass of savages,
realising their helplessness, swept down upon them from both sides.

"Spur up, boys. No time for shooting," cried Lamont, instinctively the
commander. "Spur up! It's our only chance."

They know this, and they do spur up. If the horses had got _anything_
left in them they have to travel now. Again, instinctively, Lamont
holds back to cover the rear, though he could easily have been among the
foremost.

For some minutes this terrible race continues--its prizes dear life; and
now as the ground becomes more level, the horsemen are gaining. Through
the fierce hissing and the thunder of the shouts of the pursuers nothing
else can be heard, and it is literally every man for himself.

In the wild din, we repeat, nothing can be heard, consequently the
residue of the refugees are totally unaware that one among their number
is down, lying pinned to the ground by his horse but otherwise
uninjured, awaiting the spears of hundreds of savages aroused to the
last degree of vengeful exasperation. But such is sadly the case--and
that man is Piers Lamont.

This is "where he is."

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

NO HOPE!

The township of Gandela was practically in a state of siege. Taught
tardy wisdom--providentially not too tardy--by recent happenings, its
authorities had caused a strong laager to be formed, and within this its
inhabitants gathered at night. To those of them who owned stands in
outlying parts of the township this was a considerable disadvantage, for
in the event of attack their property would inevitably be looted and
their houses burnt. Moreover, the accommodation within the laager was
of necessity cramped and comfortless, and involved a considerable amount
of promiscuous `herding,' But in those lurid days, when tale succeeded
tale of treacherous massacre and mutilation throughout the length and
breadth of the land,--unhappily, for the most part true,--when refugees,
singly or in groups, would come panting in with hair-breadth escapes to
narrate, unspeakably glad to have escaped with their bare lives,--when,
at any moment, the Matabele impis might swoop down upon them