in dark loom the jagged silhouette of the mopani
stockade. Then the crescent line seems to tighten itself as for a
spring, and, still in dead silence, the swarming dark figures hurl
themselves forward. They have barely a couple of hundred yards to
cover, and they will be pouring over the fence in their numbers, and
overwhelming those within by their sheer weight. Half the distance is
already covered, and in each savage ruthless heart is the anticipating
delight of a demon--when, lo--

It is as though the earth itself were splitting in the detonnade which
rends the stillness, crashing forth from that dark silent barrier.
Aimed low, hardly a single bullet misses its mark, in many cases doing
double, even treble, execution at that short range. Those thus stricken
leap in the air or fall heavily forward, in any case staggering, and
upsetting those immediately behind or around; and still with unflagging
rapidity and unerring accuracy that deadly fire plays upon the whole
advancing line. Advancing? No! Now no longer; for like the roll of a
vast billow, met by a cliff face, this dark wave staggers, hurling
itself on high, then falls back; and ever that pitiless hail adds to the
destruction, at the rate of so many lives per second. The confusion is
awful, absolute, complete.

Howls and yells, roars and shrieks from those stricken down, and those
in their immediate vicinity, mingle with the wild hissing of those
behind, pressing forward in fierce eagerness to pour over the defences
before those within shall have time to reload. But those within seem
not under the necessity of doing anything of the kind, for somehow that
terrific fire never slackens, and the crashing detonnade is marked by
the same deadly execution upon those without. Human intrepidity has its
limits, and these fall back, gliding, wriggling like snakes so as to
render themselves as inconspicuous a mark as possible. And aided by
the--to them--friendly mist, many escape who would otherwise have
shrilled their last battle-hiss.

"Time!" called Peters, with a grim laugh, and then a smothered cuss
word, as the hot barrel of his magazine rifle which he was reloading
came in contact with a knuckle. "Time! That's the first round, and I
guess we've knocked our friend the enemy some."

"First round!" echoed Jim Steele. "Why, we've knocked him out."

"Not yet--by any means. And when it gets quite light, and he realises
how few we are, it'll take us all