The shouting increased, and Hume’s grasp tightened on his revolver, while his breathing came quicker. What was that? The sound of metal touching the rock—just touching it—but the faint tinkle was enough. There were men crawling up, then! That soft noise—it must be made by naked men creeping. His arm stiffened—his eyes were riveted—he now scarcely breathed. Was that a darker shadow before him?—almost within reach—his finger closed on the trigger. There was a groan—the rattle of a spear falling—the flash of a gun almost in his face, so that the burning powder scorched his eyes, and he emptied his remaining barrels before covering his eyes with his hand. As he did so he heard at his side the double report as Sirayo, advancing, fired; heard the terrible Zulu war-cry, the clash of blades, the fierce grunting of men in a death struggle. But he sat helpless, blinded, in an agony of pain and apprehension. The sound of the fighting retreated, grew more fitful, died away, and with trembling fingers he refilled the empty chambers of his pistol, and waited, with his hand over his throbbing eyeballs. But the enemy did not come; instead he heard the voice of Sirayo calling:
“Eh, Hu-em—Inkose!”—calling surely in some strangely unfamiliar tone of fear.
“Hu-em, my friend, do not desert me.”
“What is it, chief?”
“Come; I cling to the rock.”
“Good God!” cried Hume; “wait,” and painfully he groped his blind way along, grinding his teeth.
“Quick, my friend!” cried the chief hoarsely.
“Yes, yes; oh, God, for one moment’s strength!”
“Frank, oh, Frank, where are you?”
He turned his head at the sound. “Laura!” he cried.