“Yes. I think so. I’m sure I can.”
“Well, then, stick on for God’s sake, and go,” was the quick eager rejoinder. “I’m hit in two places—mortally. I’m dead already, but you needn’t be. Good-bye.”
He slid to the ground. The horse, relieved of its double burden, shot forward, its pace accelerated by a stone, lightly hurled by its late owner, which struck it on the hindquarters. A glance convinced him that his comrade was now in comparative safely, and Hilary Blachland turned to await the onrushing mass of his ruthless foes—single-handed, alone, and—as yet, absolutely unhurt. His temptation had been sharp, searching and fiery. But his triumph was complete.
[a/]
Chapter Six.
His Triumph.
In uttering that sublime lie, Hilary Blachland had set the seal to his triumph.
But for it his comrade would have refused to leave him, on that point he was sure, whereas to throw away his life for one who was dead already, would be an act of sheer lunacy on Skelsey’s part. One must die or both, and he had elected to be that one. Yet the actual horror and sting of the death which now stared him in the face was indescribably terrible.
Instinctively he took cover behind a stone—for the ground here was open and broken. The Matabele, reckoning him a sure prey sooner or later, had stayed their forward rush, and, halting within the bush line, began to parley, and not altogether without reason, for there was something rather formidable in the aspect of this well-armed man, who although but one against their swarming numbers, was manifestly determined to sell his life very dearly indeed. They had some experience as to what that meant—and recently.