“Ride!” said the Commandant, sternly; then he sighed, and rode on in silence, never turning.
The boy kept his eyes fixed on his father’s broad back; then a lump came into his throat.
Oom Jan touched him on his shoulder, and the boy started.
“Do not leave her so, neef,” he said.
The boy looked back and waved his ragged cap. “I will come ’gain soon, little mother,” he shouted.
“If the Groot Herr wills,” muttered Oom Jan.
The boy looked at him sharply, then rode on with his head up and his hand firmer upon the stock of his long rifle, as long almost as himself. Already his keen young eyes swept the veld for signs of the Zulus—and he had forgotten the little house and the little patient mother.
The village soon was left behind, and the little band went slowly over the ridge and down the long slope, into a narrow valley, and at dusk reached the broken veld that stretches up to the frowning height of Hlobane. It was very silent. The burghers smoked, but talked not; and very plain, and seeming very near, came the dismal baying of a Zulu dog from a lofty kraal on Zunguin Nek, where a fire gleamed red through the dark.
“There are men there,” said the Commandant in a guttural whisper. “We must ride hard in the morning when we return.”
“Ja!” said Oom Jan; “else they will cut us off. I hope they will eat and drink much this night, so that they sleep fast.”