in the forces under von Argerlich's command kept the black
troops in any semblance of order.

The hauptmann was both sorry and glad on that account; sorry because he
would automatically drop into a subordinate position when other German
officers superior in rank came in with the column; glad, since there
would be sufficient Europeans to overawe the iron-disciplined yet
mutinous native troops.

The appearance of the German sergeant-major interrupted the hauptmann's
reveries. Clicking his heels and stiffly saluting the veteran awaited
his officer's permission to speak.

"Well, dolt?" enquired von Argerlich thickly.

"A scout has just reported that the Gwelba column has been sighted,
Herr Hauptmann," announced the warrant officer. "The advance guard
ought to be here within half an hour."

"It is well," replied the hauptmann, rising unsteadily. "Tell
Lieutenant Muller to get the men under arms. Where's my sword? Hans,
you black schweinhund, bring me my boots, and take care that there are
no centipedes in them, or----"

Still grumbling the hauptmann buckled on his sword, donned his
sun-helmet and boots and went out into the open space between the
trench and the lines of low-built huts where the remnants of the 99th
regiment--250 men out of a full strength of 1,200--were falling in.

Worn and weary the advance guard of the column limped into the camp,
followed at regular intervals by the main body. With the latter was
Oberst von Lindenfelt, the senior officer of the column, and another
individual dressed in nondescript garments whose face seemed familiar
to von Argerlich.

"Greetings, Max!" exclaimed von Lindenfelt. "Let us hope you have
plenty of food. We are almost starving."

"Not much in that line, Herr Oberst," replied von Argerlich. "How have
you fared?"

"Donnerwetter!" said the oberst vehemently. "Things have gone badly.
It is indeed fortunate that we managed to find our way in. Had it not
been for von Gobendorff here--you have met von Gobendorff before, I
understand?"

"Der teufel!" ejaculated the hauptmann, grasping the hand of the
motley-garbed man, "of course I have. Ulrich, ten thousand pardons,
but in two years a man is apt to alter, especially in these strenuous
times. Has anything happened that you have been compelled to drop your
Scottish name? Let me think. Ach! I have it. MacGregor, was it not?"

Ulrich von Gobendorff shook his head. "Nothing compelled me, Max," he
replied.