his strength. There followed another crash or two of
rifles from behind, then no more. The savages reckoned their prey
secure. They could easily distance a lean horse, badly overloaded, on
such ground as this, without further expenditure of ammunition. Now
they streamed forward through the bush to overtake and butcher the two
fugitives.

Of the above Blachland was as fully aware as the pursuers themselves.
There was no safety for two, not a ghost of a chance of it. For one
there was a chance, and it fairly good. Which was that one to be?

"_Jji--Jji!--Jji--jji_!" The hideous battle-hiss vibrated upon the air
in deep-toned stridency. A glance over his shoulder. He could see the
foremost of the savages ranging up nearer and nearer, assegais gripped
ready to run in and stab. Which was that one to be?

In the flash of that awful moment a vision of Lyn rose before him--Lyn,
in her fair, sweet, golden-haired beauty. Was he never to see her
again? Why not? A loosening of his hold of the man in the saddle in
front of him, a slight push, and he himself was almost certainly safe.
No human eye would witness the deed, least of all would it ever be
suspected. On the contrary, all would bear witness how he had ridden
back into grave peril to try and rescue a missing comrade, and Lyn would
approve--and even a happiness he had hardly as yet dared dream of might
still be his. And--it should.

"Can you stick on if I don't have to hold you, Skelsey?"

"Yes. I think so. I'm sure I can."

"Well, then, stick on for God's sake, and go," was the quick eager
rejoinder. "I'm hit in two places--mortally. I'm dead already, but you
needn't be. Good-bye."

He slid to the ground. The horse, relieved of its double burden, shot
forward, its pace accelerated by a stone, lightly hurled by its late
owner, which struck it on the hindquarters. A glance convinced him that
his comrade was now in comparative safely, and Hilary Blachland turned
to await the onrushing mass of his ruthless foes--single-handed, alone,
and--as yet, absolutely unhurt. His temptation had been sharp,
searching and fiery. But his triumph was complete.

CHAPTER SIX.

HIS TRIUMPH.

In uttering that sublime lie, Hilary Blachland had set the seal to his
triumph.

But for it his comrade would have refused to leave him, on that point he
was sure, whereas to throw away his life for one who was dead already,
would be an act of sheer lunacy on Skelsey'