He was right, for the trampling came nearer, and it was quite evident that the little party were riding round in shelter of the patch of wood, so as to get it between them and the English camp before striking straight away.
They were only about a dozen yards distant, dimly seen through the intervening trees, and Dickenson was in the act of glancing right and left at his men when a chill ran through him. For Lennox, who had lain perfectly still in the shadow beneath the bush where he had been laid, suddenly began to mutter in a low, excited tone, indicating that he was just about waking up. It was impossible to warn him, even if he had been in a condition to be warned; and to attempt to stir so as to clap a hand over his lips must have resulted in being seen.
There was nothing for it but to crouch there in silence with hearts beating, and a general feeling that in another few seconds the order must come to fire.
The moments seemed to be drawn out to minutes as the Boers rode on, lessening their distance and talking loudly in a sort of formation two or three abreast, till the front pair were level, when one of them raised his hand to shade his eyes, and drew his comrade’s attention to something in the distance.
“It’s a party of the rooineks,” he said in his Dutch patois; “or some of our horses left from that wretched surprise yesterday.”
“I shall never do it in the dark,” said Lennox half-aloud, and Dickenson’s heart seemed to cease beating.
“What do you say, behind there?” cried the first speaker sharply, but without turning his head.
“I say they’re rooineks,” said one of the three who came next.
“Yes, they’re rooineks, sure enough,” said the first Boer; “but that’s not what you said just now.”
“Yes, I did,” was the surly answer; “but every one here’s talking at once.”