es his
whistle to his lips, giving forth the shrill alarm.

The game is up. Mr. Botha, unarmed, can be of no assistance to his
friend, who now must fight his way alone from death and danger. The
Mauser gun, which has been impeding his every movement, is whipped out
of the trouser-leg as he flies, weapon conspicuously in hand, through
the well-lit streets of Pretoria, until, making a sudden dive, he
disappears between the wires of a fence, into the seclusion of a
peaceful private garden. There is no time to think. He rushes through
the garden from one side to another, out into the next street, and so
on; block after block he takes, until he finds himself alone in a
quiet street, far from the scene of danger, and while his enemies are
surrounding and searching the block into which he first had
disappeared, he is many miles away, plodding weary and heavy-laden to
friends and liberty.

Only half satisfied as to his comrade's escape, Mr. Botha returned
home in sore distress that night to watch and await developments, and
it was not until Krause surprised him later with another and wholly
unexpected visit that he learnt the sequel and happy ending of that
memorable flight.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEATH OF ADOLPH KRAUSE

Uninterrupted communication had once more been established between the
conspirators, and all was going well.

_So it seemed!_

But the Prince of Darkness was at work. And with him an accursed band
of Judas-Boers.

How can I tell the tale? How force into the background of my mind and
soul the unspeakable horror with which all my being is filled when I
contemplate this aspect of the war, in order to collect my thoughts
sufficiently to find the words I need?

That week the town was full of spies.

Captain Naude had come in on Thursday night and was to leave again on
Saturday night. Another spy, young Delport, a brave and reckless
youth, was also in the capital, "recruiting" men to take out with him
to commando.

That Saturday night, as Mr. Botha was on the point of leaving his home
for the Captain's place of refuge, from where he had to "see him off,"
as arranged, Mrs. Krause arrived at his house in some agitation and
said that her husband had just come in and wished to see Mr. Botha.
Krause was suffering from an exceedingly painful whitlow in the thumb
of his left hand, she said, and he had come to see a doctor and to
have the whitlow cut. She implored Mr. Botha and his neighbour Mr.
Hocke to