the town before I should be cut off by one of the large bands or _impis_
of natives at that time prowling about in search of defenceless
foreigners in outlying farms.

I was about thirty miles from Bulawayo, when a couple of Kaffirs, flying
south, came across us and gave us news. The Mashona boys were 'up'
everywhere, full of fight and full of mischief; already many farms had
been attacked, and though the alarm had been sent east and west, and
south and north, yet there were many of the new settlers in great
danger, and--so far as human probability went--all or most of those who
were not safely in Bulawayo would be cut off and murdered, and their
homes pillaged and burned.

'You are as good as dead already,' they cheerfully informed us, 'unless
you can somehow get safely into the town, and that is very unlikely
indeed, because the Matabele are all round it, preventing people leaving
or arriving.'

Of course this was said in Kaffir English, and certainly our informants
looked frightened enough to warrant the truth of their news.

'Aren't they doing anything at Bulawayo to help the outlying farms?' I
asked. 'Surely the towns people are not leaving them all to be murdered
in cold blood?'

'They expect to be attacked themselves--the town is going to be
besieged,' said the frightened Kaffirs; 'they are fortifying themselves
and forming an army, but they are sure to be killed, every one of them.'

This sounded cheerful, indeed. Of course, so far as Bulawayo and its
population were concerned the news was only partially true. Bulawayo, as
probably you will remember, behaved most excellently; it not only
defended its own women and children from attack, but contrived to send
out parties of rescue to many of those known to be exposed to danger in
outlying parts of the country, saving numbers of British men, women and
children, who would have otherwise perished.

The Kaffirs continued their flight southward, and I found myself
suddenly called upon to make a very important decision.

Twenty miles away, northward and eastward, lay the farm of a man who had
offered me hospitality quite lately. This was Gadsby, a man of some
thirty-five years, married and with three small children. His partner,
Thomson, lived with him. In all probability these two men, Mrs. Gadsby,
and the three little ones--dear little people, two girls of six and
five, and a boy of about seven--were all, at this moment, in deadly
danger. Surely the least I