nding, until his jars were almost bumping on the ground, the
subaltern summoned his remaining energies in a final spurt and doubled
almost recklessly towards his goal.

Through the smoke he heard the sharp challenge of one of the sentries.
He tried to reply, but no sound came from his parched throat. The man
raised his rifle, when his sergeant, recognising the dishevelled,
swaying form of Second-Lieutenant Wilmshurst, ordered the man to
recover arms. Then a white mist swam before the subaltern's eyes, and,
retaining sufficient presence of mind to place the hardly-won jars of
water upon the ground, he stumbled inertly into the arms of the
Rhodesian sergeant.

CHAPTER XVIII

IM THE ENEMY'S POSITION

It was not long before Wilmshurst regained consciousness, to find that
his precious stock of water was being boiled under the direction of the
patrol-corporal. With admirable restraint the men, knowing that the
subaltern had risked a horrible death for the sake of his black
sergeant, had put the whole of the liquid to boil, insisting that a
fair distribution would be made when the water was fit for drinking. A
little over two gallons was not much among so many, but it would just
assuage their thirst until the steadily-declining heat of the
smouldering ruins permitted access to the well.

Producing his pump-filter, for Bela Moshi had taken particular pains to
leave it in a safe place before the sortie, the subaltern strained the
liquid. It was warm and insipid, yet it was now free from
contamination, and Bela Moshi drank it with avidity.

A suspicion of his broad smile flitted across his face as he took the
life-giving draught.

"You tink me lib for die, sah?" he enquired whimsically.

"No fear!" replied Wilmshurst, knowing that to a remarkable degree a
"nigger" can control his ability to live or die. He had known of a
black man who, grievously upset in a quarrel, declared that he was
going to die, and promptly lying down and turning his face to the
ground, the man was a corpse within half an hour. "You get well one
time quick, or me berry angry."

The subaltern's reply reminded him of a doting parent talking to a
small child in baby language. Bela Moshi was a mere child in certain
respects, and the mild threat had its effect. "Den me tink me lib,
sah," he said.

With this assurance Wilmshurst left to snatch a few hours' much-needed
rest. The bulk of the white men comprising the garrison were behind