ere were
barely fifty rounds left among the whole patrol--that is to say,
something less than a round and a half per man. And they were still
hemmed in by hundreds of the enemy, closely hemmed in, too, as the
recent fatality proved, and it still wanted a good many hours till dark.
Small wonder that a very gloomy expression rested upon almost every
countenance. The position was almost as bad as it could possibly be.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE TABLES TURNED AGAIN.

Suddenly a tremendous volley crashed forth from the hillside on their
left front, followed immediately by another on the right. For a moment
the men looked at each other in silence, and the expression of gloomy
determination hitherto depicted on their countenances gave way to one of
animated and half-incredulous relief.

For no sound of hostile volley was that. No. Help was at hand.
Already they could see the Kafirs gliding from bush to bush in groups,
hastening to make good their retreat, thoroughly disconcerted by this
new and disastrous surprise.

"Whoop!--Hooray! Yoicks forward!" shouted the beleaguered combatants,
each man giving his particular form of cheer, varying from savage
war-cry to view halloo. They were wild with excitement, not only by
reason of their unlooked for deliverance from almost certain massacre,
but also on account of being in a position to turn the tables upon their
skulking foe.

Then came the crack--crack--crack--of the rifles of the new arrivals,
who advanced rapidly, yet not entirely without caution, through the
bush, picking off the retreating Kafirs as these showed themselves in
fleeing from cover to cover. And above the crackle of the dropping
shots rang out the wild notes of a bugle, villainously played. A roar
of laughter went up from our friends.

"Brathwaite's Horse for a fiver!" cried Hoste. "That's Jack Armitage's
post-horn. I know its infamous old bray--And--there's Brathwaite
himself."

"Any of you fellows hurt?" sung out the latter, a fine, stalwart
frontiersman, who, with several of his men, rode down upon the group.
The remainder were spread out in skirmishing line on either side, the
irregular rattle of their fire showing that they were still busy
peppering the enemy in sight.

"One man killed," answered Shelton. "It's Parr, poor chap."

"So? Well, fall in with us and come on. We haven't done with Jack
Kafir yet."

"Can't. We're all but cleaned out of ammunition."

"So?" said Brathwaite