“It’s of no use, Joeboy,” I said hoarsely; “we’re trapped.”
“Boss Val going to fight?” he said inquiringly, and as he asked his question he fitted his long, elliptical shield well upon his left arm and arranged his assagais handy for throwing.
“Two against all those, Joeboy? No; it would be folly.”
There was no time for more words, for the party which had remained in hiding till we had passed were closing in fast; and then a couple of young men suddenly darted out from those in front, set spurs to their horses, and seemed to race at us, leaping the stones in their way steeplechase fashion.
In almost less time than I take to describe it, one of them, a good-looking, frank young fellow in an officer’s uniform, rose in his stirrups and made a snatch at my arm; but, in answer to a touch of the heel, Sandho leaped forward, and my would-be captor passed me, riding on several horse-lengths before he could turn and come at me again; while, by a quick leap aside, Joeboy avoided the man who came at him, and stood with his back to a great stone, with his assagai raised to strike.
“Surrender, you Dutch scoundrel!” roared my antagonist, drawing his sword, “or I’ll cut you down.”
“Dutch scoundrel yourself, you ugly idiot of a Boer!” I cried as angrily, and I brought my rifle to bear upon him, holding it like a pistol.
“Here, don’t shoot,” cried my adversary. “You don’t talk like a Boer.”
“Why should I?” said I. “But you’re not a Dutchman—are you?”
“Hardly,” he said, with a laugh.