his luckless mount which had had the unfortunate foolishness to
go dead lame just as he wanted him to put his best foot foremost.

Stung by these obtruding apprehensions, Hyland lashed his steed
savagely. It sprang forward into a half-hearted canter, and again he
lashed it. In front rose a long acclivity, the straight road ribanded
out in red dust, in contrast to the green of the veldt. Then began a
race--all unconsciously on the part of one competitor, but not so on
that of others. Threescore armed savages were straining every muscle to
gain the top of that acclivity the first, advancing stealthily through
the mimosa bushes and long grass.

Up this the sorry horse cantered half heartedly. But Hyland Thornhill
was in a bad temper now, a condition of mind begotten of growing
anxiety. What was a mere quadruped to him then? And again the raw-hide
lash curled round the animal's ribs. It gave a feeble kick or two, but
started off at a fairly respectable pace.

"Get on, you brute!" he growled savagely.

It may grieve the moralist, but it is hard fact that that outburst of
bad temper saved the rider's life. For by just the time saved by the
enforced acceleration of the horse's pace did he gain the top of the
rise first and--became alive to what he had, by such a shave, escaped.
The crawling forms were not a hundred yards distant on his right when he
sighted them, and on realising that they were discovered, they bounded
forward with a roar. But it was downhill work now, and Hyland sent his
steed along at its best pace, soon leaving his enemies behind.

"Near thing that, damn it!" he muttered grimly, turning in his saddle to
see if he was being pursued.

He was. Dark forms, strung out like a pack of hounds, were sprinting
along the road in his rear. He had got a good start, but what if this
confounded screw should stumble and fall? Then--good night! And
Kwabulazi was not exactly near, either. He had a good, business-like
revolver slung round him, concealed by his coat; but what was that
against such odds? It would mean selling his life at the price of four
or five of theirs, and keeping the last bullet for himself.

He had served in Matabeleland as well as in the Dutch war. He was
hardened and resourceful, but among the things he had learned in the
former campaign was the accepted fact that it did not do to fall into
the power of hostile savages, helpless and unarmed.

But no more did he see of his pursu