“Wait a moment!” replied West, who had passed his hat into his rein hand, to afterwards clap his right to his head and draw it away.
“First blood to them!” he said, with a mocking laugh.
“Here, we must ease up and let me bandage it,” said Ingleborough.
“No, thanks: that’s a likely tale with the bullets flying like this! Keep on, man; we’ve got a fair start! Let’s get past those trees forward yonder; they’ll shelter us a bit!”
“But your wound, my lad?”
“They’ve only nicked the edge of my ear. It will stop bleeding of itself. There’s nothing to mind!”
Ingleborough watched him eagerly as he spoke, and seeing for himself that there was only a feeble trickle of blood from the cut ear, he pressed on in the required direction.
“Give me warning,” he cried, “if you feel faint, and we’ll pull up, dismount, and cover ourselves with our horses while we try what practice we can make if they come on.”
“If they come on!” said West bitterly. “Look for yourself; they’re already coming!”
Ingleborough turned his head sharply, to see that a line of galloping men had just been launched from the Boer laager to the right and left, and were streaming in single file down the slope, leaving ample room between them for their dismounted companions to keep up a steady fire upon the fugitives.