The German, standing in his stirrups, shouted a demand for the instant surrender of the garrison, promising honourable treatment if the terms were complied with, and stating that the investing troops were fully aware of the weak numbers of the British patrol.
"You might have spared yourself the trouble, Herr Offizier," replied the patrol commander. "We mean to stick it."
"Vat you mean by 'stick it'?" demanded the envoy.
"To fight it out," was the grim reply. "Come on; we're ready."
The German made no further remark to the Rhodesian, but began an harangue in the native dialect, inciting the blacks to turn against their white allies, promising immunity and rewards.
"Stop that!" shouted the patrol commander sternly, raising his voice above the angry murmur of the villagers. "Another word and the flag of truce will not protect you."
The Hun scowled sardonically, and out of sheer bravado resumed his incitement to the natives to surrender.
Picking up a rifle the Rhodesian took careful aim at the horse's chest at point-blank range. The weapon barked. For a moment neither horse nor rider stirred, then without warning the animal's forelegs collapsed, throwing the Hun headlong in the dust.
The terrified orderly wheeled, and casting aside the white flag, rode at full gallop to the shelter of the bush, his hasty and undignified retreat being carried out without let or hindrance on the part of the defenders of the kraal.
The German officer lay where he fell, the dead steed pinning him down as it lay on its side with its hind, off-side leg rigidly extended at an oblique angle to the ground. Partly stunned by his fall the officer tried ineffectually to rise; then after a while he relaxed and lay motionless in the broiling sun with swarms of mosquitoes buzzing round the prostrate horse and rider.