er Bobs came close to his side.

"Dutchmans kill Kruger Bobs, no matter; kill Boss, no take despatch.
Boss say to Kruger Bobs where de despatch. Kruger Bobs take him to
Krugersdorp, if Boss die."

And Weldon shivered a little, as the silence dropped again.

The ridges were steeper now, and came in more swift succession, as
the horsemen plodded wearily along the southern slope of the Rand.
Piggie was breathing heavily; and Weldon, clinging to his saddle
with the purely mechanical grip of the exhausted rider, halted again
and again to rest the plucky little animal whose best was always his
for the asking. Of his own condition he took no heed. It was all in
the game. He would play the game out as long as he could; but his
last move should be, as his first had been, strictly according to
rule. Meanwhile, for two facts he was at a loss to account. Dawning
was still hours distant. Nevertheless, the darkness before him was
blotted and blurred with alternating waves of blue and gray. The
veldt was empty; yet, above the roar of the rain around him, an odd
purring sound was in his ears. Then everything lost itself in his
determination not to allow the saddle to slip from between his tired
knees.

He roused himself at the challenging voice of a picket.

"Despatches for General Kekewich," he answered, in a voice which
seemed to his own ears to have come from miles away.

"Advance and give the countersign."

Irritably he gathered himself together.

"I can't, I tell you. I don't know your blasted countersign. I've
despatches from Dixon to General Kekewich. Take me to him at once."

The colloquy lasted for moments, in a drawn battle of determination.
Its stimulus had waked Weldon from his lethargy; it had also waked
again that fierce and throbbing pain below his knee. He left the
sentry in no doubt, either of the truth of his statement, or of his
mood. Then, with Kruger Bobs at his side, he plodded forward towards
the lights of the town, while he braced himself for a final effort.

Fifteen minutes later, he reached the second line of pickets. The
gray broncho's head drooped pitifully, as Weldon sat waiting for the
inevitable challenge. It came at last; and Weldon's answering voice
was slow with a weakness which was not all feigned.

"Despatches from Dixon's column. Take me to the Commandant, please."

He was dimly aware of a hand on his bridle, dimly conscious that
Piggie was being led forward for a seemingly endless dis