On they came. Once the leader raised his hand, and all stopped, listening intently. The wild clamour of the dogs still arose in the distance. Reassured, the scoundrels advanced, swiftly, noiselessly. Seventy—sixty—fifty—forty yards.
“Ready, Marian! Take the third fellow. Now!”
Crash! Crash!
The double report bellowed forth into the midnight stillness. Mingling with it came a horrid scream. Marian’s aim had been true and deadly. The leader of the gang, a stalwart Kafir—had made one leap into the air and had fallen forward on his face. He lay motionless. Again Renshaw drew trigger, bringing a third man to the grass, his knee-bone shattered.
Then the unexpected took place. Instead of seeking safety in headlong flight, as the defenders had reckoned, the surviving three rushed madly round to the other side of the house, a bullet from Renshaw’s six-shooter failing to stop them.
“Stay here, Marian,” whispered the latter hurriedly. “Draw on the first fellow who shows himself.” And in a trice he was round to meet the new attack.
What was this? No sign of the enemy. Had they fled?
Suddenly a crash of glass—a scuffle and a torrent of Dutch curses. Quickly the position stood revealed.
There stood Gomfana, holding on to a human figure which was half in and half out of the window—head and shoulders through the shattered sash. He had got the fellow firmly by the neck with one hand, while with the other he was striving all he knew to drag him in by his clothing. But the villain—a stalwart half-breed—was almost too much for the sturdy young Kafir. The latter would have assegaied him in a moment had he owned three hands. Having but two, however, and these two being required to hold on to his enemy, it was out of the question—but hold on he did.
“Stop struggling or I’ll shoot you dead!” said Renshaw, in Dutch, placing the muzzle of his pistol against the man’s body. The fellow, thoroughly cowed, obeyed, and Gomfana, with a final effort, hauled him bodily into the room amid a terrific shatter of falling glass.