Van Zwieten, seeing his advantage, led the remainder of his force to the other side of the house, where there was a wide window. It opened into the room where the Boer woman was kneeling. She flung open the shutters. Van Zwieten jumped in, followed by half-a-dozen of his men, and the first those within knew of it was when they found themselves attacked in the rear. They right about faced, put their backs to the wall, and fought like men. Then, as a reward for her treachery, a stray bullet pierced the brain of the Boer woman.
Meanwhile, the men who forced entrance into the yard were steadily gaining ground. But hearing the firing within the house they turned back by the front again, in order to come to the rescue of their comrades. The party on the veranda broke through the door and hurled themselves forward. Boer after Boer fell before the British fire, for Harold had now concentrated his men--what there were left of them. Gradually he was driven back to the sitting-room. A shout of triumph from outside announced that those who had remained had succeeded in capturing the horses.
Within, the whole place was dense with smoke. Brenda, in obedience to her husband's orders, was lying flat on the floor beside the sofa. She gave up all for lost, but determined she would not be taken alive. She was only waiting until her husband fell. In the midst of it all she could discern Van Zwieten. Rifles were useless now. It was hand to hand work. The end was near.
There, in the little room, Harold stood with three of his men beside him. The others were either dead or dying. But the Boers had got off by no means cheaply. At least twenty of them had been done for. The four Englishmen, with their backs to the wall, fought on, using revolver, muzzle and butt-end, until at last their cartridges gave out, and they threw down their weapons with a curse and surrendered. There was nothing for it. Van Zwieten gave vent to a yell of triumph. His men threw themselves on Burton. But the Englishman was too quick for them. He stepped back quickly and levelled his revolver. He had one chamber loaded.
"I have just one left," he said hoarsely "stand up to it, Van Zwieten, for I am keeping it for you!"
"Finish him, men!" roared the Dutchman.
"No, no," cried Brenda, and before a man could move she had flung her arms around her husband and stood between him and them. "The last shot, dear, is for me!" she said.
There was a pause. They held back. Harold never flinched. His wife clung to him desperately. His face was streaming with blood from the graze of a bullet. But he was determined to make good use of that last shot.
Beside Van Zwieten stood a huge man with a white, flowing beard. At last the Dutchman made a dash forward and attempted to take Brenda from her husband's arm.
"You are mine," he cried madly, "mine! You shall not die!"