However, he was wrong.
Presently from out of the fog came the same wild war-cry and the thunder of hoofs. There was another charge with sadly depleted numbers.
For reckless courage Barclay had never seen anything to equal their youthful leader. Again and again he rallied his men and brought them on, until finally, with only about a dozen men, he swept through the deadly zone and on towards the fort.
In the very teeth of the Maxims his black horse literally flew over the high stockade. But the youngster was the only one who faced the guns. His following broke up and turned back under the fierce fusillade.
Although the leader got over the stockade alive, his horse did not. It crashed and fell dead beneath him. With a quick side spring—a marvellous piece of horsemanship—he avoided injury and, with drawn sword, rushed on towards the little fort.
The Hausas would have shot down the reckless youngster, but Barclay stopped them.
"We don't make war on children," he said in their dialect.
A closer inspection showed the leader of the Arab horde to be hardly more than a child; a handsome boy of about fourteen who, suddenly, realising that his followers had deserted him, now stood gazing round in a fierce, thwarted fashion.
On finding he was alone he did not retreat, although Barclay gave him every opportunity. Instead, he stood his ground and hurled a challenge in Arabic at the men clustered on the top of the fort.
Since there was no reply to that, he shouted again, this time in French.