oot him, Baas?--shall I shoot him?" asked the one-eyed
Hendrik, smacking his lips at the thought, and fiddling with the rusty
lock of the old fowling-piece he carried.

Muller, by way of answer, struck him across the face with the back of
his hand. "Hans Coetzee," he said, "go and arrest that man."

Poor Hans hesitated, as well he might. Nature had not endowed him
with any great amount of natural courage, and the sight of his old
neighbour's rifle-barrel made him feel positively sick. He hesitated and
began to stammer excuses.

"Are you going, uncle, or must I denounce you to the General as a
sympathiser with Englishmen?" asked Muller in malice, for he knew the
old fellow's weakness and cowardice, and was playing on them.

"I am going. Of course I am going, nephew. Excuse me, a little faintness
took me--the heat of the sun," he babbled. "Oh, yes, I am going to seize
the rebel. Perhaps one of these young men would not mind engaging his
attention on the other side. He is an angry man--I know him of old--and
an angry man with a gun, you know, dear cousin----"

"Are you going?" said his terrible master once more.

"Oh, yes! yes, certainly, yes. Dear Uncle Silas, pray put down that gun,
it is so dangerous. Don't stand there looking like a wild ox, but come
up to the yoke. You are old, Uncle Silas, and I don't want to have to
hurt you. Come now, come, come," and he held out his hand towards him as
though he were a shy horse that he was endeavouring to beguile.

"Hans Coetzee, traitor and liar that you are," said the old man, "if you
draw a single step nearer, by God! I will put a bullet through you."

"Go on, Hans, chuck a reim over his head; get him by the tail; knock him
down with a yokeskei; turn the old bull on his back!" shouted the crowd
of scoffers from the window, taking very good care, however, to clear
off to the right and left in order to leave room for the expected
bullet.

Hans positively burst into tears, and Muller, who was the only one
who held his ground, caught him by the arm, and putting out all his
strength, swung him towards Silas Croft.

For reasons of his own, he was anxious that the latter should shoot one
of them, and he chose Hans Coetzee, whom he disliked and despised, for
the sacrifice.

Up went the rifle, and at that moment Bessie, who had been standing
bewildered, made a dash at it, knowing that bloodshed could only make
matters worse. As she did so it exploded, but not before she had