"All right, baas," said Pete. "If you say dat, they might as well see me;" and the Kaffir slipped outside the cave, carrying his rifle with him.
"Come back, you fool!" cried Jack; but he was powerless to prevent his father's native foreman from disobeying his command.
Pete gazed with an air of nonchalance at the approaching figures, who were now only three hundred yards away. The Kaffir stood leaning on his rifle. His brows were knitted, and all the wild savagery of his nature was aroused.
The Boers halted, and presently two of their number, one of them carrying a white handkerchief affixed to the barrel of his rifle, advanced towards Pete.
The latter glanced at the breech of his rifle, opened it, after which his eyes enlarged in wonderment. The breech and magazine were empty. Jack Lovat, who was peering over the edge of the cave, cried, "Drop your rifle, Pete!" but the command was not obeyed.
"Dey shall see no hands ob mine go up," muttered the Kaffir; "an' if de Boer is Piet Van Donnop, he can look out."
The strangers advanced, and the next moment Jack Lovat heard the cry, "Hands up, 'boy,' or we'll fire!"
Pete clutched his rifle, and advancing a few paces, delivered a stroke with the butt of his weapon on the head of the foremost Boer, and the latter tumbled over.
A moment later, brave Pete, the Kaffir "boy," fell, pierced through the brain by a bullet. He expired almost instantly, leaving his young master and the wounded New Zealander helpless in the hands of the Boers.