He felt sick and weary. His wound had induced a fever, which made him somewhat light-headed. He stopped running, and trudged doggedly along, in what direction he knew not.
How long he wandered he never knew, but he halted when he came to a donga; for a fire, burning brightly, pulled him up.
He saw the glare of the fire when some distance from it, and conjectured that a party of Boers or British Irregulars on trek had encamped for the night in the donga.
The figures of several men, evidently asleep, were seated round the fire, while some distance away from the latter, a number of horses were picketed, and grazing upon the sparse grass.
Jack's eyesight was good, despite the rough experience he had recently gone through, and lying flat on his stomach, he watched the strange spectacle.
An uncouth-looking figure emerged from the gloom, and going towards the sleepers, awakened two of them.
"Changing sentries," soliloquised Jack. "They are not our fellows—Boers, without a doubt."
And Boers they were. Jack had stumbled across a patrol of the enemy, and a fear of again falling into their hands crept across his mind.
Fear soon gave way to certainty, for one of the lately aroused Boers—a thick-set, unwieldy man—came stalking towards the place where Jack was lying.
A Mauser rifle reposed in the hollow of the Boer's left arm, and gleams of light played on the barrel.