ath in lingering torment. Yet they
were as cool as though at ordinary musketry practice.

"Here they come again!" sang out Ladell. "Aim low, boys, and steady.
Give them three volleys, as quick as you can load."

The savages surged forward; near enough now to render distinguishable
each broad, cruel face. Their sonorous war-shout had now become a
strident hiss, in the hope of still further terrifying the frantic
horses. A tongue of them darted round as though to outflank the
position, and further confuse the mere handful of Police. The fire of
the latter had now become a continuous roar.

But what of those who led the new manoeuvre?

One by one down they went, each shot fair and square through the head,
and that in regular and precise order. Half a dozen--eight--thus lay.
In wild panic, which was half superstition, they halted, and pressed
back. While thus bunched, a deadlier fire raked them. Utterly
demoralised, they dropped into cover, and incontinently crawled out of
the line of fire. Seeing which, Harley Greenoak said to himself
complacently--

"This old repeating gas-pipe I borrowed from Mainwaring isn't such a bad
practical joke after all."

Then he became alive to two facts; neither of which astonished him, for
he had foreseen both. One was that the enemy had had enough; the other
that the team inspanned to the foremost of the ammunition waggons was in
a state of wild panic--so much so indeed that its driver could no longer
control it. And that driver was the very black, pleasant-mannered
Kafir, Jacob Snyman.

The horses plunged and tugged wildly at the reins. So frantic were
their plunges that it seemed a miracle that the whole thing was not
overturned. Yet no upset took place.

No upset took place, but a bolt. The frantic animals dashed off--at
headlong speed downhill--straight for where, amid the bush, the defeated
Kafirs lay, broken up into sullen knots, but now, animated once more,
eagerly awaiting this most welcome prize. Their driver seemed powerless
to restrain the animals.

"Turn the horses, Manyelo! Turn the horses, or you have looked your
last upon the sun!"

The driver, Jacob Snyman, knew the voice, even as it needed not his real
name to bring home to him that he was known. Harley Greenoak, galloping
abreast of the runaway team, but with his horse well in hand, was
pointing a long-barrelled and very businesslike revolver straight at his
head, and he had only too recently s