the remaining men did what
Boyce should have commanded as soon as the first shot was fired--they
rushed the house.

It contained one solitary inmate, an old man with a couple of Mauser
rifles, whom they had to shoot in self-defence.

Meanwhile Boyce, white and haggard-eyed, had picked himself up;
revolver in hand he stood on the stoep. His men came out, cursed him to
his face while giving him their contemptuous reports brought the dead
bodies of their comrades into the house and laid them out decently,
together with the body of the white-bearded Boer. After that they
mounted their horses without a word to him and rode off. And he let
them ride; for his authority was gone; and he knew that they justly
laid the deaths of their comrades at the door of his cowardice.

What he did during the next few awful hours is known only to God and to
Boyce himself. The four dead men, his companions, have told no tales.
But at last, one of his men--Somers was his name--came riding back at
break-neck speed. When he had left the moon rode high in the heavens;
when he returned it was dawn--and he had a bloody tunic and the face of
a man who had escaped from hell. He threw himself from his horse and
found Boyce, sitting on the stoep with his head in his hands. He shook
him by the shoulder. Boyce started to his feet. At first he did not
recognise Somers. Then he did and read black tidings in the man's eyes.

"What's the matter?"

"They're all wiped out, sir. The whole blooming lot."

He told a tale of heroic disaster. The remnant of the section had
ridden off in hot indignation and had missed their way. They had gone
in a direction opposite to safety, and after a couple of hours had
fallen in with a straggling portion of a Boer Commando. Refusing to
surrender, they had all been killed save Somers, who, with a bullet
through his shoulder, had prudently turned bridle and fled hell for
leather.

Boyce put his hands up to his head and walked about the yard for a few
moments. Then he turned abruptly and stood toweringly over the scared
survivor--a tough, wizened little Cockney of five foot six.

"Well, what's going to happen now?" he asked, in his soft, dangerous
voice.

Somers replied, "I must leave that to you, sir."

Boyce regarded him glitteringly for a long time. A scheme of salvation
was taking vivid shape in his mind....

"My report of this occurrence will be that as soon as, say, three men
dropped here, the rest of the troop