“Ah!” cried West, springing to his feet as if the object of his journey had been driven out of his head by the excitement of the moment, and he took a step towards his horse, just as, to his intense surprise, Ingleborough’s mount suddenly threw up its muzzle, made a plunge, and found its feet, shook itself violently, and whinnied, as if it had just recovered from being stunned.
“Here, make one effort,” cried West, seizing the steed’s bridle and leading it to where its rider lay.
“Look—your pony’s all right again! Can you mount?”
“No,” said Ingleborough faintly, as he made an effort to struggle to his knees, but only fell back with a groan. “Can’t! Feel as if my neck’s broken and my shoulder numbed. Now will you make a dash while you can?”
West hesitated, and duty mastered friendship and humane feeling for his companion. He was but one, and the despatch might deal with the lives of a thousand men in peril of their lives.
“Yes, I must go!” he groaned, making for his horse; but he was too late.
For though the Boers, apparently from a feeling that they were quite sure of their prey, had advanced slowly and cautiously, each man with his rifle presented and finger on trigger, their movements showed plenty of cunning. They had opened out so as to get round the horses, watching the young man’s actions all the time, and when he at last made for his mount they were close up, and rifle-barrels bristled around, every muzzle threatening and grim.
“Throw up your hands!” came in chorus from a score of throats, and directly after the same order was given in fair English by two of the ragged, unkempt, big-bearded enemy.
West looked fiercely round like a hunted animal brought to bay by the hounds, waiting to seize the first one that sprang, and ground his teeth with rage; but he paid no heed to the men’s words.
“Throw up your hands!” roared one of the men.