He rode off with a defiant whoop. A big Dutch oath escaped from the lips of Piet Bok, and he caught Brenda's horse by the bridle.
"We must ride for it," he said. "The man recognized me, and you too. He will hasten back to Van Zwieten, and they will be after us in no time. We must make for the hills."
"How can I thank you, Bok?" said Harold, gratefully.
"Almighty, that is right! you spared my boy Hans."
By this time the messenger was a mere speck on the horizon. He was riding like the wind to take this news to his chief.
The three fugitives made a straight line for the pass, urging their horses to their best. The sun had dropped behind the mountains and the shadows were gathering fast on the veldt. For several hours they tore on until they reached the mouth of the pass. There they pulled up to give themselves and their animals breath.
"I think we can count ourselves safe now," said Piet Bok, wiping his brow. "But we must push on through the pass. At the other side let us hope we shall come up with your men."
The track was narrow and winding and full of mud, which fouled the horses and made the climbing doubly hard. It was quite dark there, but Piet knew every inch of the path, and rode on ahead fearless and confident. In about an hour they emerged. There were the lights of the British camp twinkling a mile and a half away.
As they commenced the descent they heard a shot ring out, and Brenda gave a cry of dismay. Piet Bok had fallen from his saddle.
"Ride, ride for your lives!" cried the old man. "He has come round by the other pass."