ling himself behind a
stone.

It was Drew Lennox's rifle that spoke, not he, as in reply to the fire
they had brought upon them he took careful aim and drew trigger, when
one of the Boers sprang up fully into sight, turned half-round, threw up
his rifle, and fell back over the edge of the cliff among the bushes
similar to those which sheltered the young Englishmen.

"Good shot, lad!"

"Yes. On his own head be it," said Lennox. "A cowardly ambush. Fire
as soon as you can steady yourself. Where are you? I can't see you."

"Ahint this stone, laddie," replied Dickenson coolly enough now. "And
you?"

"Behind this one here."

"That's right; I was afraid you were only bushed. Ah! my
turn,"--_crack_!--"now. Bull's-eye, old man."

As the words left his lips Lennox fired again, and another Boer who was
badly hidden sprang up and dropped back.

"Two less," said Drew in a husky whisper, while _crack! crack_! went the
Boer rifles, and a peculiar shattering echo arose from the far side of
the river as the bullets flattened upon the rocks or cut the bushes like
knives; while from being few in number they rapidly became more, those
of the enemy who had been searching the gully down which the young men
had come now concentrating their fire upon the little cluster of rocks
and trees behind which they were hidden.

"Don't waste a cartridge, Bob lad," said Lennox, whose voice sounded
strange to his companion, "and hold your magazine in case they try a
rush."

"Or for those fellows who'll come round by the ford," replied Dickenson.

"Never mind them. The firing will bring our lads out, and they'll
tackle those gentlemen."

"All right.--Ah! I've been waiting for you, my friend," whispered
Dickenson, and he fired quickly at one of the enemy who was creeping
along towards a spot from which he probably thought he would be able to
command the spot where the young Englishmen lay. But he never reached
it. He just exposed himself once for a few moments, crawling like a
short, thick snake. Then his rifle was jerked upwards to the full
extent of the poor wretch's arm and fell back. He made no other
movement, but lay quite still, while the rifles around him cracked and
the bullets pattered faster and faster about where the two young men
were hidden.

"I say, how queer your voice is!" said Dickenson. "Not hurt, are you?"

"No, and yes. This hurts me, Bob lad. I almost wish I wasn't such a
good shot."

"I don't," mu