“Boy, bring the coffee, sharp,” shouted someone inside, between the volleys.
“How much to the Point?” sung out someone else: the joke being that many of the assailants wore clothes, and had possibly been kitchen boys or ricksha pullers in Durban or Maritzburg. To which the assailants would shout back—
“How many women have you got there, abelungu? Ha! We shall find wives directly without having to pay lobola.”
“Here is the price of one!” cried Verna grimly, as she drilled the head of a flitting savage who was glancing from one point of cover to another. A huge shout arose from the defenders.
“Good shot! Oh, good shot! Three cheers for Miss Halse!”
And they were heartily given, amid the roar of dropping volleys. Yet, at the moment, Verna felt disgusted. That old feeling came over her again.
But a voice dispelled it.
“Darling, you are too rash. There are enough of us. Why not go under shelter?” Denham was beside her. All the bitter thoughts vanished.
“Alaric, don’t loathe me for this,” she whispered. “I don’t do it for choice, but we want all the defence we can make.”
“We shall always be able to say we have fought literally side by side, at any rate,” he answered, with a pressure of the hand. “How can I think any the worse of you for your splendid pluck?”