enemy's lines.

There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men who
dashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness,
commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-stricken
horses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, the
pursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.

"Hold to the right! More to the right!" cried Blachland, edging further
in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the
swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down
in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the
runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now,
during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the
slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp "crack--crack" of the
rifles of the advancing savages, the "whigge" and hum of missiles
overhead--in front--around--all was as nothing. Then he realised that
they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy's
line. And then--

"Help, help! For God's sake, don't leave me!"

A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned
his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all,
the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He
saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside
of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing
further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the
camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and
were rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to
secure at any rate this one victim.

"For God's sake, don't leave me!" again yelled the unfortunate man, the
terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance.
And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every
chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.

To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his
own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised
cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help
him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so
grossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicable
fashion? Anybody else--but this one--no, he would not.

Yet what was it that