“My leg is broken,” he muttered.
“Lay still, my father. Oom Jan will come for you.”
The big man looked round and saw his son standing behind, with his rifle ready, facing the warriors, alone. “Oh, Heer! Oh, Heer!” he groaned. “My son, why are you here?”
“Oom Jan will come,” muttered the boy, huskily.
“Anything but this,” cried the big man. Then he said sternly, “Give me your rifle, Piet, and run—run for your mother’s sake. Run, you are untired and the Kaffirs have come miles. Your rifle—quick!”
Young Piet shook his head. “Oom Jan will come,” he whispered.
The Zulus, silent with quivering nostrils and gleaming eyes, drew in closer.
The veld echoed the sound of rapid hoof-beats.
Old Piet Uys raised himself on his arm and looked over the veld. He saw his burghers coming; but they were far, and he faintly heard Oom Jim’s voice ring out in encouragement.
“Run, my little one,” he repeated; “run, I order you! Your father tells you,” and the man looked sternly at his son.