“Absurd!” said Lennox.
“Oh no. Likely enough. They came buzzing along, too, like swarming bees. That would account for what he said about you.”
“Be quiet,” said Lennox sharply. “If the enemy comes to-night I want to fight, and not to think about that.”
“All right. I hope they will come; it will be a waste of sleep if they don’t. Bah!” he added after a long-drawn yawn. “They won’t come—they know better. These nigger spies see a few men on ponies, and away they run to say they’ve seen a big commando, and hold out their hands for the pay. Take my word for it, there’ll be no fighting to-night.”
It seemed as if Dickenson was right in his surmise, for the time glided on, with the stars rising to the zenith and beginning to decline. The heavens had never seemed more beautiful, being one grand dome of sparkling incrustations. The atmosphere was so clear that it seemed to those who lay back watching as if the dazzling points of light formed by the stars of the first magnitude stood out alone in the midst of the transparent darkness, while the shape of the kopje was plainly marked out against the vivid sky.
“Too light for them,” said Dickenson after a long pause.
“They will not come till morning.—Who’s this?”
“Roby.”
He it was, the tall figure in a greatcoat coming close up to stop and speak to Sergeant James about being watchful, and then passing on without a word to his juniors. Roby came in the same quiet, furtive manner three times over during the night, twice being in company with Captain Edwards, who stopped to have a few words with Lennox and Dickenson as to the probability of an attack; but Roby stood aloof.
“And a good job too,” said Dickenson after the last occasion. “I don’t want to be malicious, though it seems so, about a man who has just got over a bad hurt; but I do hope the Boers will come, and that he will be wounded again—”