Hume fired twice.
“Too high, Jim; aim at their feet. No, they won’t come within sixty yards;” and he fired again.
The shouts of the Zulus rose hoarse and terrible, mingled with shrill whistling. On they rushed, right up to the outer barricade, and then, as they were brought up, and the terrible Express bullets tore through them, they hurled their throwing assegais, then scattered and fled for shelter. Some of the assegais entered the little fort and were embedded in the earth, their hafts quivering; others glanced along the branches, and many stuck into the waggon.
“That was a warm rush,” said Webster; “and if it had not been for the mercy of that fence we would have been speared to a certainty.”
Hume was passing a cleaner through the barrels of his Express, and looking over the box barricade at the enemy, or, rather, for a sign of them, for they had apparently sunk into the earth. He did not reply, but turned presently and looked at Miss Anstrade.
“Well?” she questioned.
“If they make another rush, having now warmed to it, two rifles will not keep them back, and then—”
“Yes.”
“There can only be one end,” he looked at her with sad eyes, and then added, “for us.”
“And for me?” she asked.