ided the room from the waggon-house. It was built of fourteen-inch
green brickwork, and had cracked from the shrinkage of the bricks, so
that she could hear everything that went on in the waggon-house, and
even see anybody who might be moving about in it. But it was far too
strong for her to hope to be able to break through, and even if she did,
it would be useless, for armed men were there also. Besides, how could
she run away and leave her old uncle to his fate?

CHAPTER XXIX

CONDEMNED TO DEATH

Half an hour passed in silence, which was broken only by the footsteps
of the sentries as they tramped, or rather loitered, up and down, or
by the occasional fall of some calcined masonry from the walls of the
burnt-out house. What between the smell of smoke and dust, the heat of
the sun on the tin roof above, and the red-hot embers of the house in
front, the little room where Bessie was shut up grew almost unbearable,
and she felt as though she should faint upon the sacks. Through one of
the cracks in the waggon-house wall there blew a slight draught, and by
this crack Bessie placed herself, leaning her head against the wall
so as to get the full benefit of the air and to command a view of the
place. Presently several of the Boers came into the waggon-house and
pulled some of the carts and timber out of it, leaving one buck-waggon,
however, placed along the wall on the side opposite to the crack through
which Bessie was looking. Then they pulled the Scotch cart over to her
side, laughing about something among themselves as they did so, and
arranged it with its back turned towards the waggon, supporting the
shafts upon a waggon-jack. Next, out of the farther corner of the place,
they extracted an old saw-bench, and set it at the top of the open
space. Then Bessie understood what they were doing: they were arranging
a court, and the saw-bench was the judge's chair. So Frank Muller meant
to carry out his threat!

Shortly after this all the Boers, except those who were keeping guard,
filed into the place and began to clamber on to the buck-waggon, seating
themselves with much rough joking in a double row upon the broad
side rails. Next appeared Hans Coetzee, his head bound up in a bloody
handkerchief. He was pale and shaky, but Bessie could see that he was
but little the worse for his wound. Then came Frank Muller himself,
looking white and very terrible, and as he came the men stopped their
jokes and talking. Indeed it