“Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?” he cried, fairly dancing with delight. “Why didn’t you take me with you though—”
“Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young ass,” was the very ill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by his kinsman.
The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for he still hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make things warm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into the thicker bush, until a few deftly planted shells taught him that he had not yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.
[a/]
Chapter Three.
A Flaming Throne.
“Too late, boys, I guess the Southern Column got there first.” And the utterer of this remark lowered his field glasses and turned to the remainder of the little band of scouts with an air of profound conviction.
Away in the distance dense columns of smoke were rising heavenward. For some time this group of men had been eagerly intent upon watching the phenomenon through their glasses, and there was reason for their eagerness, for they were looking upon the goal of the expedition, and what should practically represent the close of the campaign—Bulawayo to wit, but—Bulawayo in flames. Who had fired it?
Considerable disappointment was felt and expressed. Their prompt march, their hard and victorious fighting had not brought them first to the goal. The Southern Column had distanced them and was there already. Such was the conclusion arrived at on all sides.