I'm all right."

"Thank Heaven!" cried West.

"I did," said Ingleborough, "but in a quiet way! Yes, lad, they can
shoot; but it's a hard mark to hit--a galloping man end on. They'd be
better if we were going at right angles to the shot!"

"Now then, another five minutes, and we shall be beyond the range of
their rifles."

"And in another you had better give the word to slacken speed, for the
ground will be getting rough. Why not give it now? They've ceased
firing."

"Ease down then to a gentle canter," cried West, in reply, and their
panting steeds were checked so that for the last mile of their retreat
they progressed at an easy ambling pace which enabled the horses to
recover their wind, while the precipitous sides of the eminence in front
grew clearer to the eye and gave ample proof of being able to furnish
nooks which would afford them and their horses security, while enabling
the friends a good opportunity for returning the compliment to the Boers
as far as bullets were concerned.

West said something to this effect after taking his glass from where it
was slung and looking back, to see that the enemy was remounting and
continuing the pursuit.

"Not they!" replied Ingleborough. "They're too fond of whole skins to
run risks! They'll lie down in holes and corners to fire at us, but
they will not attack us if we are well in cover, and they find we can
hold our rifles straight."

"Then we must!" said West quietly. "Only we shall want a bit of rest
first, for my nerves are all of a quiver, and the blood feels as if it
was jumping in my veins."

"Come along then! We'll soon find a place where we can lie down behind
the stones! The sooner the better too, for I'm beginning to feel rather
murderous."

"Murderous!" cried West.

"Yes: don't you? I'm not going to be shot at for nothing! Look here,
Nolly, my lad, life's very sweet, and I value mine. I'm peaceably
disposed enough, but these brutes have invaded our country, and you've
had proof that they are trying their level best to make us food for the
crows. Under the circumstances don't you think it's time for the
lambs--meaning us--to turn upon the butchers--meaning the Boers--and let
_them_ feed the crows instead?"

"Don't talk in poetical metaphors, Ingle," said West, with a grim smile.
"If it comes to the point, we'll make our rifles speak in a way that
will keep the enemy from stopping to hear the end of what they have to
say."

"Ha! ha!