“What is it, old fellow?” I said softly, as I debated whether I should dismount so as to make sure of my shot. “There, go on.”
The horse took two steps forward, and then stopped again.
“Here’s something, Sergeant,” I said. “Push on round the end of that block and you’ll see too.”
“Lion?”
“No, no. Go on.”
Sergeant Briggs pushed on, and uttered a loud ejaculation.
“One of the Boers’ horses?” I said.
“One of the Boers, my lad,” he cried. “Close in there.”
The two men drew nearer, and the next minute we were all gazing down at where one of the enemy’s wounded horses had evidently pitched forward upon its knees and thrown its wounded rider over its head to where he lay, a couple of yards in advance, with a terrible gash across his forehead, caused by falling upon a rough stone. But that was not the cause of his death, for his jacket and shirt were torn open and a rough bandage had slipped down from the upper part of his chest, where a bullet-wound showed plainly enough that his lungs must have been pierced, and that he had bled to death.
“Poor chap!” said the Sergeant softly; “he’s got it. Well, he died like a brave man. Came up here, I s’pose, for shelter.”