“They are preparing,” said Sirayo quietly, and took a pinch of snuff, while as he held the powder to his nostrils he pointed with his assegai to where the gleam of shields showed thick among the bushes.
Hume took from Miss Anstrade her light and beautifully finished rifle. Then, throwing a handful of dust into the air to get the direction of the wind, he put up the 500 yards sight.
“If I can pick that brute off I may stop the rush,” and he nodded at one of the two whites who stood upon an ant-hill.
“Three hundred yards, I think,” said Webster, measuring the distance with his eye.
“No; the clear air takes off from the distance. Now, Klaas, see where the bullet strikes. I will shoot better beyond the fence;” and pulling away a thorn, he walked out to an ant-hill.
“They come,” cried Miss Anstrade, as the nodding plumes of the Zulus moved forward.
Hume knelt down, and resting the barrel on the conical top of the ant-mound, aimed long—so long, that Webster felt tempted to rush out and pull him in. At last came the crack.
“Missed, by heavens!” shouted Webster, and he emptied his two barrels at the dark mass which was now moving on the left in a direction parallel to the camp.
“Baas shoot too strong,” cried Klaas, and Hume put up 450 yards, and inserted another cartridge.
“Come in, man, come in; they are running.”