He had entered the precincts of the Kopje Farm without encountering the slightest resistance.
Simon and Daniel, as related before, had fortunately escaped.
Mr. Lovat's stores were ransacked, and articles of food and clothing wantonly destroyed. The ostrich farmer had a plentiful supply of spirits, mostly in the shape of Scotch whisky, and the marauders helped themselves with willing hands, and before long, discipline became hopelessly lost.
Maestral, the field-cornet, although possessing a cruel and vindictive temperament, was an abstemious man, and argued, but in vain, with his intemperate burghers.
"We shall have to pay dearly for this," he said, addressing a rough-looking burgher named Wessels, who was one of the ringleaders in the acts of destruction.
"Very likely," said Wesseis, with a brutal leer. "We have had a rough time of it lately, so I for one mean to enjoy myself, whenever the opportunity offers. The chance may not occur again."
Pat O'Neill could not conceal his anger and chagrin as he witnessed the looting that went on, but a hint from a gray-whiskered Boer, that flesh and bone are not proof against bullets, induced the Irishman to keep a still tongue in his head. So all that Pat could do was to set his teeth and bear it.
Several of the younger members of the commando had turned the ostriches loose, but Field-cornet Maestral's threat of using his sjambok had a salutary effect, and the birds were re-penned after several exciting chases.
The rifles and ammunition found in the storehouse were confiscated by the Boers, and the latter were on the point of resuming their wild orgies when a couple of burghers dashed up on horseback and inquired for the field-cornet. The bloodstains on their horses' flanks showed that they had ridden hard.
"Well?" demanded Maestral. "You bring good news, Emil Behrens?"