“I am, I believe, old fellow; and enough to make me. It’s enough to make a fellow desert. Here, I know; I’ll do something. It’s all the fault of that miserable renegade. I’ll go in and half-kill him—an insolent, insulting brute!”
Just then Denham, who was as fearless as any man in the ranks when out with the corps, started violently in his alarm; for a hail came from high up on the wall in the Colonel’s familiar voice; and upon looking up, there he was, glass in hand, looking down at us.
“Denham,” cried the Colonel, “run to the Major. Tell him to come here to me at once, and bring his glass.”
“Yes, sir,” cried my companion.—“Come with me, Val. My word! He gave me such a turn, as the old women say; I thought he’d heard me again. Hurrah, old fellow! there’s something up, and no mistake. I shan’t get that tongue-flogging after all.”
Chapter Thirty Three.
Denham Proves to be Right.
In a few minutes the Major had joined the Colonel, and soon every officer and man in the old fortification was waiting breathlessly for information as to what intelligence regarding the movements of the enemy the two stern-looking men up on the wall were gathering into their brains through their glasses—intelligence far beyond the ken of the sentries, whose duty it was to keep strict watch upon the great circle which was formed by the Boer lines.
There was no hurry or bustle; but our trumpeter had buckled his sword-belt and taken down his instrument from where it hung, and then stationed himself upon one of the blocks of stone in the great courtyard, watching his chiefs, and holding his instrument ready, while his eyes seemed about to start out of his head in his excitement. Everywhere it was the same. Men glided about here and there, after a glance at the ranges of rifles against the wall, with their well-filled bandoliers, and only paused at last where each could dart to his horse, ready to saddle and bridle the tethered beast. The officers were also silently preparing—buckling on their swords, taking revolvers from their belt-holsters, and filling the chambers from their cartridge-pouches, quite mechanically, without taking their eyes off the watchers on the wall. But in spite of all these preparations no sounds were heard save those made by the horses—an impatient stamp or pawing at the stones, followed by a snort or a whinnying neigh.