razing the granite slab immediately behind the speaker, hums away at a
tangent into space. It is followed by another and another: in fact a
settled determination to make it hot for the holders of that particular
kopje upon the part of the enemy seems to have followed upon the
recognition of Blachland.

"Lie close, you fellows!" warns the latter. "Hallo! That's Sybrandt
signalling me. It's an old hunting call of ours," as a peculiar
chirping whistle travels over from an adjacent granite pile. "Ah, I
thought so." Quick as thought he has wormed himself behind another
stone and now peeps forth. Below, a couple of hundred yards distant,
dark forms are crawling. The bush is thinner there, and the object of
the savages is to pass this, with a view to extending the surround.
Blachland and the American have both taken in this, and the thud and
gurgling groans following on the simultaneous crash of their pieces tell
that they have taken it in to some purpose. At the same time a cross
fire from among the boulders where Sybrandt and some others are lying,
throws the Matabele into a momentary but demoralising muddle of
consternation.

The rain has ceased, but in the damp air the smoke hangs heavy over the
dark heads of the bushes. Down in the camp, the sullen splutter of
rifles, and ever and anon the angry, knock-like bark of the Maxims.
There is a lull, but again and again the firing bursts forth. With
undaunted persistency the savages return to the assault, howling out
jeering taunts at those who a short while back they reckoned as sure and
easy prey--but with dogged pertinacity the defence is kept up. One man
falls dead while serving a Maxim, and several more horses are shot.

At length the firing slackens. The enemy seem to have had enough.
Quickly the orders are passed round. Those in the kopjes are to remain
there, covering the retreat of the rest of the patrol, until this shall
have gained better ground some little way beyond.

Then the very heavens above took part in the fight, and in a trice the
deafening, stunning thunder crashes rendered the sputter of the volleys
as the noise of mere popguns, and the lurid blinding glare of lightning,
pouring down in rivers of sheeting flame, put out the flash of man's
puny weapons.

"This is rather more risky than their bullets, eh Hilary?" remarked
Percival West, involuntarily shrinking down from one of these awful
flashes.

"Gun barrels are a good conductor," was