“Oh, Hans! what—”
“Come, darling, quick!”
There was no time for more. Hans held out his hand. Gertie took it mechanically.
“Your foot on my toe. Quick!”
Gertie did as she was bid, and felt herself swung to the saddle in front of her husband, who held her in his strong right arm, while in the grasp of his huge left hand he held the reins and an assagai.
Poor Gertie had time, in that brief moment, to note that Charlie Considine sat motionless on his panting horse, gazing sternly towards the karroo, and that a cloud of dust was sweeping over the plain towards them. She guessed too surely what it was, but said not a word, while her husband leaped his horse through a gap in the garden wall in order to reach the road by a short cut. Double-weighted thus, the horse did not run so well as before. Considine was frequently obliged to check his pace and look back.
The stern frown on the Dutchman’s brow had now mingled with it a slightly troubled look.
“Go on. I’ll follow immediately,” said Considine as he reined in.
“Don’t be foolhardy,” cried Hans, with an anxious look as he shot past.
Without replying, Considine dismounted, knelt on a slight eminence on the plain, and deliberately prepared to fire.