Next second all three became convinced that a large body of men was approaching, and even Hans Schloss had his suspicions aroused. He stopped in his lonely tramp abruptly, faced down the hill towards Ladysmith, and brought his rifle to his shoulder. An instant later a figure bounded into sight close in front of him, and the German fired and turned to fly. But he was too late. The flash of the rifle lit up the darkness, and to the astonishment of Jack and his two companions they saw a swarm of kilted men rushing headlong at the gun, while in front of them was the brawny giant, a fine Scotch lad from the Highlands, at whom the German had fired. The bullet evidently found a mark, for the soldier gave a fierce cry of anger and pain, and, bounding forward, buried his bayonet in Hans Schloss’s body, and with the strength of a Hercules hurled him over his shoulder just as a man might toss a bundle of hay with a pitchfork. Then someone shouted in the darkness, “At them boys! Surround the gun and keep everyone back till we have done the work!”
A second later there was a rush, and a hurricane of bullets swept across the top of the hill, splashing on the gun, and making it uncommonly uncomfortable for Jack and his friends, while the sharp crack of a Mauser close at hand and a series of terrified cries told them that Guy was performing his allotted task.
“Stop! Don’t fire! We are English!” Jack shouted.
“Cease fire there! Steady, men! Cover these fellows till I can get a look at them!” shouted the officer.
“Why, it’s Rawlings!” Jack cried in delight, recognising the voice of an officer he had met in Ladysmith. “Rawlings, I am Jack Somerton. Don’t let your men fire, and we will explain everything.”
At this moment a dark lantern was unmasked, and the rays flashed in Jack’s face.
“By Jove, it’s you right enough!” Rawlings cried. “Who are the others?”
“Prisoners who had been tied to the gun, and whom I and a friend were rescuing,” Jack answered hurriedly. “But I’ll tell you all about it later on. The Boers are away on the left, and that is the side you had best look to.”
“Why, who’s this?” the officer demanded a second later, as Guy was brought up a prisoner and halted in front of him between two Highlanders with fixed bayonets.
“Don’t know, sir,” one of the men answered shortly, with a Scotch accent. “He was firing away like mad down the hill, and there were a couple of dead Boers at his feet lying over a pile of rifles.”