"Man the loopholes, boys!" said Jack; and the Kaffirs, whose rifle magazines were charged, stood to their posts. Nine murderous-looking small-bore rifles were instantly pointed down the valley.
The man on the gray horse had halted a couple of hundred paces in front of the party of horsemen, as though undecided what to do.
"I'll interview him, sorr," said Pat, whose place was next to Jack Lovat. "I'll go and see what the rascal wants."
"I was thinking about the same thing myself," observed Jack. "Maybe it will be the best thing that can be done. No, you must not take your rifle; and put that bandolier off, Pat."
"All right, sorr. I'm anyhow for an aisy life. An' conscience," replied the brave Irishman, "I've got the barker, sorr, if things come to the worst. Then I can go, Master Jack?"
"Certainly, Pat; just slip down and see what the thieving rascals want. But remember, we have no remounts at Kopje Farm for them."
"I understand, sorr," said Pat; and the ex-soldier walked boldly out of the kraal to the spot where the individual on the gray horse had halted.
Pat, whose stride was none of the shortest, made rapid tracks towards the solitary horseman, whose left hand grasped a short stick to the end of which was attached a white handkerchief, while the right supported the barrel of a Mauser rifle, the butt end of which rested on his thigh.
"Halt!" cried the horseman in perfect English, as Pat came up. "Who and what are you?"
"That is my business," answered Pat. "I will put a more pertinent question to you. Long-whiskers! who an' what are you, an' what do you mane by disturbing honest folk in these lonely parts?"