"Sir! you are ambushed!"

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THE KOPJE FARM

By William Johnston

Author of "Tom Graham, V.C.," "With the Rhodesian Horse," etc.

With
Coloured Illustrations
by
Lancelot Speed

COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

LONDON, GLASGOW, AND NEW YORK

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. JACK LOVAT
II. A BOER LAAGER
III. FRINGED WITH FIRE
IV. MR. LOVAT'S ADVENTURE
V. DIAMOND VALLEY
VI. A CAPE REBEL
VII. A WEIRD ADVENTURE
VIII. THE AMBUSH
IX. THE RESCUE
X. THE FARM RECAPTURED
XI. DIAMONDS GALORE

THE KOPJE FARM

### CHAPTER I
JACK LOVAT

Those stirring times are days of the past, and the unsheathed sword has given place to the ploughshare, but weird pictures of bloodshed among man and beast are indelibly impressed on Jack Lovat's brain, and his dreams of to-day are often linked with the scenes enacted during the "White Men's War" beneath the glittering Southern Cross.

Jack Lovat was not a Colonial bred and born, for his boyhood had been passed amid the peaceful surroundings of a Highland sheep farm in dear old Scotland. Mr. Lovat, Jack's father, had been a laird of substantial means, and was descended from a line of ancestors in whose veins coursed a strain of royal blood; but bad times came, and Jack, instead of proceeding to Loretto, took passage as a member of the Lovat family, in a Castle liner bound for Cape Town.

Jack was seventeen at the time our story opens. Rather above the middle height, he was broad, and his bronzed features testified to his three years' sojourn on the South African veldt.

The Kaffirs on his father's ostrich farm, near Orangefontein, had dubbed him "The Strong-armed Baas," only a month later than his advent to the holding locally known as "The Kopje Farm."

Pete, the Kaffir who acted as native foreman to Mr. Lovat, declared that "Baas Jack" could fell the biggest ox ever inspanned in a Cape waggon, which of course was an exaggeration of a very bad type, but to which statement Pete and the other "boys" employed on the estate pinned implicit faith.

The dogs of war had been let loose in South Africa, but Orangefontein had not been troubled as yet. Ladysmith, Kimberley, and gallant little tin-roofed Mafeking had been besieged and relieved, but round the homes of the settlers near Ookiep and Orangefontein tranquillity reigned.

On the outbreak of hostilities, Jack Lovat had begged his father to allow him to join a Colonial mounted corps, but Mr. Lovat withheld his permission.

"No, boy," said the ostrich farmer; "we will defend our home to the last, and I can't spare you; so say no more about it. It will be quite time for us to take up arms when the Boers come round here." So Jack, with a somewhat bad grace, had to rest content, and busy himself with attending to the ostriches and the big fruit farm on the bank of the Zak River.

One afternoon during the African winter, Jack and Pete were engaged in rounding up the ostriches. Mr. Lovat had left early in the morning for Springbokfontein. He had driven over to the town in a light Cape cart, in whose shafts was Bessie—a favourite mare, foaled on the farm, and belonging to Mary Lovat, Jack's sister.

Bessie was known to be the fastest roadster in the district, and was as playful as a kitten, and never was a horse better loved than was Bessie by Mary Lovat.

The ostrich farmer had promised Mrs. Lovat that he would be home soon after midday, and it was now four hours past that time; so Jack was naturally anxious.

In a cowhide portmanteau Mr. Lovat had taken five hundred sovereigns, intended for deposit in Springbokfontein Bank. The town guard in Springbokfontein was exceptionally strong, and Mr. Lovat, after much discussion with his wife and Jack, had decided to deposit the gold for safe keeping in the bank, instead of, as Mrs. Lovat at first suggested, hiding it in some carefully marked spot on the kopje, in case of the advent of the Boers.

The ostriches having been penned up in Cromarty Kraal—so called from his mother's maiden name—Jack turned to Pete and said, "My father is late. I hope he is all right."

"De baas will come in his own good time," observed Pete; "he will be able to take good care ob himself. Dere be no Boers about here."

"I should like to see some of them come," said Jack, with a laugh. "I think we could give a good account of them. Let me see," and the young settler began to count on his fingers; "there's you, Pete, and Saul, Moses, Jethro, Simon, Zacchary, Daniel, Obadiah, and I must not forget Pat, besides my father and self. That makes eleven, doesn't it? With the rifles and ammunition we got from Port Nolloth, and inside our strong walls, we could keep a commando at bay."

Jack's enthusiasm began to rise, and he went on: "I hope some of the beggars do come down upon us. I want to try my rifle upon something better than springbok and hartebeeste. What say you, Pete?"

A broad grin spread over the Kaffir's face, as he replied, "I dunno, Baas Jack. I no want a Mauser bullet through my skin. All de same, baas, if de time eber comes, Pete will be found ready to lay down his life for de baas, missis, little missie, an' you."

"Bravo, Pete! spoken like a man!" cried Jack, who nearly so far forgot himself as to shake hands with the Kaffir. "And now, Pete, let us go round and see what the boys are doing."

Kopje Farm well deserved its appellation, for it stood on the middle spur of a high, flat-topped range of hills. The building had been erected many years before by a Dutch settler, when trouble was rife with the Bantus, and its thick stone walls, loopholed here and there, gave it the appearance of a fort. Around the dwelling-house ran a wall of stone, some six feet in height and correspondingly thick, which had continuations to the ostrich kraal, where the birds were penned at night.

Jack found that the "boys" had finished their task of fastening up the ostriches committed to their charge, and were standing in a group, chattering in their guttural Kaffir tongue. A few yards away was Pat O'Neill, an Irishman hailing from the wilds of Connaught, who had followed the fortunes of the Lovat family as general factotum from the day the Scotch laird had landed in the colony.

Jack's quick eye glanced at the Kaffirs, after which he strode towards the place where Pat was standing contemplatively smoking a short black duddeen. Pat on seeing his young master approach, came instantly to the salute; for the Connemara man, twenty years before, had formed one of the glorious defenders of Rorke's Drift.

"Where is Saul?" inquired Jack of the Irishman.

"He has gone on an errand for the mistress, sorr," answered Pat. "One of Master Butler's children down the valley is laid up wid fever, an' the mistress, who is good to every one, has sent some cooling medicine for the poor thing, which will do it good, please God. Has the master returned from Springbokfontein?"

"He has not arrived yet, Pat," answered Jack.

"Then I shall be mighty glad when I see him," observed the Irishman.

"Things are all right, Pat," said Jack, forcing a laugh.

"They may be, and may not be, sorr," remarked Pat. "Zacchary has just told me that a commando of Boers under the daring leader, Christian Uys, is trekking this way. The last time the Boers were heard of they were in the Upper Zak River district. How in the world these niggers get news, sorr, is more than Pat O'Neill, late corporal in the ould 24th Regiment, can understand. Shall I saddle up and go to meet the master, sorr?"

"Not a bad idea, Pat. Just wait a moment until I see mother;" and Jack went inside the farmhouse, where he found Mrs. Lovat peering through a window at the long winding road leading down the valley towards Springbokfontein.

Hearing footsteps, Mrs. Lovat turned round, and seeing Jack, said, "I'm dreadfully anxious about your father, Jack. I cannot understand why he has not returned. It is so unlike him to disappoint me."

"He'll be all right, mother," observed Jack cheerfully. "Very probably he has met some one he has not seen for a time. He is sure to be here before nightfall. Did he take any lamps? I was busy branding an ostrich when he went away."

"Yes, he trimmed the lamps and put them on before he set out," answered Mrs. Lovat. "I was rather surprised, as I thought he would not need them."

"These South African roads are not good, and people are delayed sometimes," said Jack. "Pat is going down the road to meet him, so cheer up, mother. Where is Mary?"

"She has a bad headache, Jack, and is lying down on the couch in the dining-room," replied Mrs. Lovat. "I do wish this time of dreadful uncertainty was over. It seems to be wearing my life out."

"I should like to take part in the war, mother," said Jack. "I sometimes get tired of the humdrum life we lead. Why didn't dad allow me to join the Scouts Mr. Driscoll raised when the war broke out? I can fight as well as any man, and I know I can shoot straight."

"Jack!"

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, mother; but if any Boers come here to harm you or Mary, they will have a bad time of it, so long as I can stand on my feet or hold a rifle."

Tears came into gentle Mrs. Lovat's eyes, as she replied, "The war spirit is a dreadful thing, Jack. It seems a crime in this twentieth century for men to be so anxious to imbrue their hands in their fellow-creatures' blood. I am always saying, 'Lord! how long?'"

"Well, all I can say, mother, is that if any Boers try to take Kopje Farm, while I can handle my rifle, they will stand a chance of being winged for their pains," observed Jack. "No Boers come here unless I am disabled and can't stop them. I am going now to tell Pat to saddle up and give a look-out for dad;" and saying this, he strode out of the apartment and walked to where Pat was still standing staring at the road leading to Springbokfontein.

"Pat!"

"Yes, sorr," answered the Irishman, coming to attention; "I'm at your service, sorr."

"Put the saddle on Cawdor and gallop down the road. If you should happen to meet father, you need not say that I sent you. You understand?"

"I know your meaning perfectly well, sorr," replied Pat; and the honest fellow walked to the stables, where he saddled Cawdor, a beautiful Arab, which Mr. Lovat had purchased at Worcester a year before, while on his ostrich-selling peregrinations.

Jack looked attentively at Pat's preparations. The Irishman spent some time in examining the saddlery, paying special attention to the girths, and being apparently satisfied with his inspection, he mounted.

"You have forgotten your rifle," said Jack. "You had better take it with you."

"I've got a barker, sorr," observed Pat, with a laugh, tapping his hip-pocket. "An officer of the ould corps gave it me many years ago, an' we've not parted company yet."

"Wait here till I return," said Jack authoritatively; and the settler's son went back to the house.

Jack proceeded straight to a storeroom where Mr. Lovat was in the habit of keeping his rifles and ammunition. He selected a weapon of the Lee-Enfield pattern, and took down a bandolier which was hanging on a peg. The bandolier was empty, but Jack broke open an ammunition box and filled the pockets of the belt with cartridges, after which he returned to Pat.

"Here, take these, Pat," said Jack, handing up the rifle and bandolier, which the Irishman took. The latter slung the belt over his shoulder, and, at Jack's suggestion, filled the magazine of the rifle.

"Well, good-bye, sorr," said Pat, and the next moment Cawdor was proceeding at a canter down the mountain road.

An hour passed, still no signs of Mr. Lovat or Pat, and Jack's anxiety increased. The ostrich farmer was a man of his word, and Jack began to fear that something was wrong, but he kept a cheerful face in front of his mother and Mary.

They were sitting in the dining-room, partaking of tea, when a tap was heard on the half-open door. Jack instantly rose to his feet and went outside. In the hall stood Pete. The Kaffir did not speak, but beckoned with his forefinger, and then passed through a door leading to a back yard.

Jack followed, and when outside, said, "Well, Pete, what is it?"

"Baas Jack," exclaimed Pete, "I dunno, but something is wrong. Come!" and the native walked rapidly round to the front of the house, Jack following in wonderment.

"Look, baas," said the Kaffir, "what does that mean?" and he pointed to what appeared to be a moving spot on the veldt.

Jack gazed long and earnestly. "Why, it is a horse without a rider!" he exclaimed at last.

Kaffirs are noted for their keenness of vision, and shading his eyes with his right hand, Pete observed, "The horse is coming dis way, Baas Jack."

Pete was right. Nearer and nearer came the flying quadruped, until at last the stirrups from an empty saddle could be seen swaying backwards and forwards.

Jack's breath came thick and fast. The horse in a mad gallop was approaching them.

"Baas Jack," cried Pete, "it is Bessie!"

And so it proved. A few moments later, Mary's pet, the beautiful creature Mr. Lovat had driven to Springbokfontein that morning in the Cape cart, galloped up, covered with foam and blood!

Bessie was trembling in every limb, but she whinnied gently as Jack patted her neck. On Bessie's back was a Boer saddle. A sudden fear descended on Jack Lovat, and mentally he asked the question, "What has happened to father?"

The mare was bleeding from a wound in the right shoulder, evidently caused by a bullet.

"Take her round to the stables, Pete," said Jack. "I will join you presently." Saying this, he went into the house. He met Mrs. Lovat coming out of the dining-room, and she at once accosted him.

"What is the matter, Jack? I heard the noise of hoofs just now. Is it your father who has returned?"

"No, he has not come yet, mother," answered Jack. "You must finish your tea. Pete wants me round at the stables. I shall be back presently;" and he went out again, but Mrs. Lovat followed him.

Pete was busily engaged in rubbing down the mare, and when Mrs. Lovat caught a glimpse of the blood on the poor creature's hide, she cried out, "Why, Jack, it is Bessie! Where is your father?" and the settler's wife burst into a flood of tears.

"You are in the way just now, mother," said Jack gently. "Go inside, until I have seen to Bessie. Something, I am afraid, has happened. The poor thing is in great pain, and I must do what I can to relieve it. Do go inside, please, mother. I will come to you presently."'

Mrs. Lovat, whose vivid imagination had conjured up all kinds of evils, obeyed Jack, and returned to the house.

Now Jack Lovat's sterling qualities of coolness and resource began to be displayed. With the skill of an experienced veterinary surgeon, he examined Bessie's wound, and then carefully washed away the coagulated blood. A gaping orifice an inch in diameter in the animal's shoulder told Jack that it was a gunshot wound and that it had been caused by a Mauser expanding bullet.

The "boys" had gathered round, all anxious to help; but Jack would allow no other hands than those of himself and Pete to touch the mare, so the Kaffirs drew back, and stood whispering among themselves.

Suddenly a clattering noise was heard, and before the "boys" could get out of the way, Pat O'Neill, mounted on Cawdor, whose chest and flanks were foam-flecked, was on the top of them, sending Zacchary and Moses tumbling to the ground.

The Irishman was bareheaded, and the arteries in his temples stood out like whipcord. He pulled Cawdor up, and dismounted. Jack, with wildly dilated eyes, queried, "What is the matter, Pat? Have you seen father?"

"No, sorr," gasped the faithful Irishman, "I haven't seen the master; but a Boer commando—bad luck to them!—is making straight for us. And I'm afraid, sorr, it will be a bad job for all of us. Their scouts are close at hand even now. You'll fight, sorr?"

"Yes, we will all fight, Pat," answered Jack proudly. "Boys, all at once to the storeroom. Pete, take Bessie into the stable and give her some water and a feed of corn. I'm sorry for mother and Mary, but it can't be helped. No surrender to the Boers!"

And Jack Lovat, although only a lad, and suffering under dire apprehension, began his preparations for the defence of the Kopje Farm.

His worthy henchman, Pat O'Neill, had often detailed to him the story of the glorious defence of Rorke's Drift, where a few Britishers, many of whom were sick and wounded, for hours, amid flames and death-dealing bullets, had held at bay the flower of savage Tshingwayo's command.

"Master Jack," said Pat, as Mr. Lovat's son stopped for a moment in his work, "we will hould the place for the sake of the missis an' Miss Mary, an' please the Almighty, I hope wid the same results as we had at the Drift on the Buffalo River, when eight Victoria Crosses were won in one night."

"We will hold it to the last, Pat," responded Jack quietly. "My father has had to work hard for all he has, and the Boers shan't take it from him while my finger can pull a trigger;" and Jack Lovat meant every word he said.

### CHAPTER II
A BOER LAAGER

Eleven miles north-west of Orangefontein, and an almost equal distance from Springbokfontein, a party of Boers were laagered. They were Free Staters, with a sprinkling of Hollanders and renegade Britons—the latter, few in number, having at one time served with the English colours, and owing to their misdeeds, had deserted or been drummed out of the British army.

Nearly all were in rags, for that ubiquitous cavalry leader, General French, had not allowed them a minute's rest, but had hurried and harried them hither and thither, until the majority of the burghers had grown sick and tired of the guerilla warfare, and wished for the end to come.

Their portable possessions—and indeed the latter could not be otherwise than portable—were stowed away in a few light Cape carts.

Ammunition was scarce, and had to be husbanded with the greatest care, while food could only be procured with much difficulty from the scattered farmsteads among the mountains of the Langeberg Range.

A Boer of immense stature, holding in his right hand a formidable sjambok, was leaning against the wheel of one of the carts. He was a magnificent specimen of physical manhood, and the privations that for two long years he had uncomplainingly endured had only served to increase his tremendous muscular strength.

His bronzed and deeply marked features showed a strength of will and determination rare even in that race of obstinate men, the Boers of South Africa.

An immense beard swept his breast, the hair composing it being streaked with gray. When Christian Uys first shouldered his rifle on the outbreak of hostilities he was, comparatively speaking, a young man, but under the sombre folds of the flag of war he had grown prematurely aged and gray.

A young burgher passing with a led horse, with a limping gait, arrested his attention, and awoke him from the train of gloomy reveries he was indulging in.

"Ah, Van Donnop," said the commandant, "I wish to speak to you. What is the matter with your horse?"

The burgher whom he addressed was a sprightly young fellow of nineteen, strongly made, and as agile as the springbok he had hunted from youth upwards.

"It is lame, Commandant," answered the youth. "One of its pasterns is split. I do not think it will be able to travel farther. And my favourite horse, too. I am very sorry, for it has been mine since it was a foal."

"I too am sorry, Piet," said the officer in a sympathising tone of voice. "We are greatly in need of horses."

The commandant stooped down and examined the horse's hoofs, after which he looked up and remarked in a grave tone of voice, "A bad case, Piet. The poor brute must be killed."

A crimson flush surged up into the face of the young burgher, and he exclaimed excitedly, "Do not ask me to kill her, Commandant! She was my mother's gift to me when I was sixteen. I am hoping to leave her at my father's farm and obtain another mount in her place."

A look of pity crept into the commandant's face as he gazed at the boy.

"Ah, I forgot, Van Donnop," said the Boer leader; "you are now in your native parts. How long have you served in my commando?"

The young burgher thought for a moment, and then answered, "From three months before we beat the rooineks at Koorn Spruit, near the Waterworks. Let me see, that is now going on for two years. You will allow me to keep the mare, Commandant?" Van Donnop asked beseechingly.

"But how will you travel?" asked Uys.

"I am fleet of foot, and do not mind the hardship," pleaded the lad. "If I may only keep my horse, I shall be happy. She is part of myself;" and Piet's voice faltered as he went on, "She who gave me the mare is dead."

Piet stroked the finely arched neck of the mare, and the gentle creature rubbed its tawny muzzle against the young burgher's cheek.

"We shall see," said the commandant at last. "By the way, you and your brother Jan know this countryside well. If we are to reach Port Nolloth, we must have more mounts. Do you know any likely place where we can replenish our stock of horses?"

"There is one farm where many horses are kept—at least there used to be, when I was at home."

"And where is that?" asked the commandant. "To whom does the farm belong?"

"To a settler named Lovat," answered Piet.

"One of our race?" interrogated the commandant.

"He is opposed to us," replied Piet; "his name is a foreign one. He is a Scotch settler who breeds many horses and ostriches."

"Has he helped the rooineks?" queried Uys, and a frown passed over his face.

"He does not sympathise with us, Commandant," answered Piet, "but I do not think he has favoured one side or the other. I believe he is entirely taken up with looking after his ostriches."

"And you can guide us to this farm?" asked the commandant. "Possibly he may have some spare nags."

Piet Van Donnop evidently did not like the suggested commission, and the commandant, noting this, went on: "We must have some mounts, Piet, or the rooineks will catch us. If that happens, I'm afraid our fate will be a sorry one. A regiment of Lancers—the men who cut up the Transvaalers at Elandslaagte—as well as several troops of New Zealanders are on our track, and without fresh horses we shall stand an almost sure chance of capture."

"You will not harm Mr. Lovat or his family?" asked Piet.

A smile played for a moment on the commandant's stern features, then he said, "Not at all, Piet. Why should we? I'm afraid your heart is concerned in the matter. But of course we must have what we require, and very few questions asked into the bargain."

"I will guide you, then," said the young burgher. "I may keep my horse, Commandant?"

"We shall see in the morning, boy," was the only reply vouchsafed by the Boer leader; and Piet moved on, leading his lame horse.

Taking out an immense pipe from one of his pockets, Christian Uys filled it with leaf tobacco, lit up, and began to smoke.

The commandant was evidently in a tender mood, for his thoughts were in distant Winburg, where his wife and the children left to him were being sheltered in a concentration camp, created by his arch-enemies, the British.

His was a strange compound of human nature. At times generous and kind, at others he was fierce, implacable, and relentless. Like his famous leader, General Joubert, at the outset he had realised that the struggle in which his country had engaged was a hopeless one, but with the obstinacy characteristic of his race, when once his hand was put to the plough, there was no turning back.

Christian Uys had already lost three sons in the war. His youngest, a boy of fifteen, and the flower of the commandant's family, had been shot in the stomach at Senekal. The brave boy hid his wound and continued on the march, although a trail of blood marked the path along which he rode, until he fell exhausted from his saddle, and with his dying breath, and a look of intense love in his eyes, said, "Father, I can fight no more, I am done." These were the brave lad's last words, and like others on both sides, yielded up his spirit for the cause in which he thought he was righteously fighting.

An older brother had been with the fierce Cronje in the honeycombed banks of the Modder, amidst the brown sulphurous smoke of bursting lyddite shells, and while bringing water for a wounded comrade from the polluted stream, had been struck squarely in the chest by a Lee-Enfield bullet, and had fallen on his face, never to rise again.

The last to die was the oldest boy of the family. A delicate youth at the best, he had gone on commando with his father when the vierkeleur was first hoisted in the field. For several months he had fought and roughed it with the rest, until foul enteric seized him, and the ranks of the Boer army knew him no more. He found a last resting-place in a shallow grave on the veldt, not many miles from his birthplace.

Christian Uys woke up from his reverie and took a stroll round the laager. Here was Jan Steen, once a well-to-do jeweller of Winburg, who before war broke out was always immaculately dressed, with ample starched shirt front and bejewelled fingers; there Van Sterck, the learned medico of the same town. Neither had had a change of raiment for months, and both looked correspondingly miserable. Yonder stood Louis Bredon, the dandy of Harrismith, now a veritable scarecrow in trousers made of sacking on which the address of a large milling concern in Johannesburg was branded in staring black letters. Bredon, like the rest of the commando, was weary of the daily trekking, discomfort, and misery incidental to warfare, and his mind was wandering back to the time when he used to walk down the shady side of Harrismith's main street, the cynosure of the belles of the Free State town.

"You look discontented, Bredon," said Uys. "I am afraid you are like most of my burghers. We cannot give in now, after we have endured so much. There has not been sufficient fighting of late to keep up your martial spirit. We want horses, Bredon, and they must be obtained, if we are to reach Port Nolloth. Otherwise we had better surrender."

"I have no objection, Commandant," replied Bredon somewhat brusquely. "I've had enough of the war. We ought never to have been drawn into it."

"You speak like a patriot," observed Uys sarcastically. "I undergo the same hardships as other burghers. You have suffered nothing as yet. In what respect have you endured more than the rest of us?"

Bredon hung down his head in a sheepish manner and remained silent.

"I am finding a cure for your melancholy and dissatisfaction, Bredon. I am detaching a portion of the commando for the duty of securing a fresh supply of horses. Van Donnop is acting as guide to the farmstead of a settler named Lovat. You will form one of the commandeering party;" and Uys passed on.

"To think," muttered the commandant, "fellows such as Bredon were the most eager at the outset, and now they begin to whine when a little hardship has to be borne! My poor Christian, Louis, and Wilhelm were formed of different stuff."

Christian Uys came up to a man who was busily engaged in cleaning his Mauser. The burgher laid down his rifle as the commandant approached.

"Eloff," began Uys, "I want you to pick a dozen good men of the commando. Before morning I must have half a score of horses. Piet Van Donnop knows a farm where they can be obtained, and will guide you to it."

Paul Eloff was a man built in the same herculean mould as his leader, Christian Uys, and he looked at the commandant keenly.

"We shall want more, Commandant," said Eloff; "a dozen will scarcely suffice. Let me see," and the Boer began counting rapidly on his fingers, after which he added, "Yes, quite a dozen, Commandant. The spare led horses were taken as mounts yesterday. We must reach Port Nolloth, or we shall be cut off by the rooineks."

"You will muster the burghers, then, Eloff," said Uys. "Bring them round to the commissariat waggon within half an hour, and do not forget Van Donnop. Although a boy, his heart is good."

"I will not fail, Commandant," replied Eloff, picking up his rifle and recommencing the cleansing process.

In less than the stipulated time, Eloff with his picked burghers stood before the commandant, each man at his horse's head.

Christian Uys called Eloff aside and whispered, "Do you think you are sufficiently strong for the purpose in hand?"

"I should make the patrol fifty strong, Commandant," answered Eloff. "You are remaining in laager, I suppose, until we return?"

"That is my intention, Eloff," answered Uys. "Van Donnop informed me that the Kopje Farm—this Scotch settler's residence—is some eight miles from here. You will keep a sharp look-out for the rooineks, Eloff, and not be caught napping?"

A smile spread over Eloff's face as he answered, "When I am found asleep, Commandant, I shall not return to tell the tale. We have got to the end of our tether, and I am longing to have one more go at the rooineks. After that, well—oblivion."

"It is a bad cause we have started on, Eloff," said Uys. "It is as General Joubert foretold at the beginning, we are fighting in a lost cause. How can we hope to stand against a mighty Power like England, which has millions of gold and men without number? Bah! we were a race of fools to be led by the nose. President Kruger, who commenced the war, basely deserted us. But I must not speak of this. It is horses we want, and horses we must have."

Paul Eloff quickly mustered the additional burghers required, and in sections of fours the motley cavalcade trekked towards the Kopje Farm.

Eloff and Van Donnop rode at the head of the slender force, and the former turning to the young Dutchman, said, "This is a rough country, Van Donnop. You spent most of your life here?"

"Until I went on commando," answered Piet. "I shall be glad when I can get back to my father's farm. Those were happy days, Eloff."

"You know the farmstead whither we are bound," inquired Eloff, "and the people as well, I suppose?"

"Perfectly," answered Piet.

"And what about the owner? Is he a fighting man? Shall we have much trouble?"

"Mr. Lovat is quiet enough," replied Piet. "He has a son named Jack, a dare-devil sort of boy, who will show fight, I think, but possibly he may be on commando with the rooineks."

"Any Kaffirs kept on the farm?" queried Eloff.

"There used to be many," answered Van Donnop. "I do not wish any harshness to be used towards Mr. Lovat. He used to be very kind to me before I went on commando. The horses will be paid for, I suppose?"

Eloff laughed outright as he replied, "Van Donnop, I don't think a single gold piece can be found in the pockets of the whole commando. My instructions are to take what we require—as civilly, of course, as possible. The account will be paid when the vierkeleur flies not over the Transvaal and Orange Free State only, but over the whole of the Cape. A receipt for the horses, of course, will be given."

The Boers, who had been travelling through a series of dongas, now debouched into a fairly open country.

Eloff halted his men, and after looking ahead, turned to Van Donnop.

"You have a pair of field glasses, Van Donnop, allow me to look through them."

Piet handed the glasses to Eloff, who placed them to his eyes.

"There is a farmhouse, Van Donnop, on a kopje some four miles ahead," said Eloff; "is it the home of this Mr. Lovat?"

"That is where Mr. Lovat used to live," replied Piet; "things have changed much lately."

"A big place for a farmstead," observed Eloff. "This Mr. Lovat must be rich."

"He is said to be fairly wealthy," answered Piet. "He was a nobleman in his own country, so I have heard it said."

"And the house lower down the valley, to whom does that belong?" queried Eloff. "Take the glasses, Van Donnop, then you will see what I mean. Over there;" and the Boer pointed with his index finger in a certain direction.

"That is Jagger's Farm," said Piet, after a glance through the glasses. "No horses can be obtained there. The farm has not been occupied for years."

"We will march straight on the place, Van Donnop, rest a while, and then move on to—what is the name of the place, Piet?"

"The Kopje Farm," replied the young Dutchman. "Someone is driving a Cape cart towards Jagger's Farm, Eloff."

"Right you are, Van Donnop. Give me the glasses again," said Eloff.

Eloff peered through the instrument for a moment, after which he ordered half a dozen burghers to gallop rapidly towards Jagger's Farm, in order to intercept the solitary passenger in the Cape cart, while he and his remaining fellow-countrymen dismounted and awaited events.

### CHAPTER III
FRINGED WITH FIRE

Kopje was singularly well situated for defence. From the rising ground behind the house, no attack could be made by mounted men, as it was strewn with big boulders of rock, and interlaced with dongas, which though not deep, presented insuperable difficulties to an enemy manoeuvring on horseback.

The ostrich kraals—which were in reality one long rambling building—commanded the country from which the only attack by mounted men could be made, and the ground in front was open.

On receipt of Pat's intelligence, Jack went to his mother and told her the news brought by the Irishman. He insisted upon her as well as Mary remaining inside the house, and would not listen to her suggestion that if the Boers were really advancing upon the farmstead, they should be allowed to take whatever they pleased, on condition they harmed none of its inmates.

"No, mother," said Jack firmly; "I have always been obedient, but any Boer who dares to enter Kopje Farm without an invitation from me will have a bullet from my rifle through him before he can say 'Jack Robinson'! Please say no more, mother. Father is not here, and may be dead, but if he is all right I could never look him in the face again if I did not show fight. Stay inside with Mary, and do not venture out until I come for you. I must go to the 'boys' now, as time is precious;" and saying this, Jack went across to the ostrich kraal, where the Kaffir servants were assembled.

The sun was within half an hour of setting, and the light was good enough to enable our hero—for such Jack Lovat will prove to be before we bid him adieu—to distinguish a body of horsemen moving in an oblique direction across the veldt. Pat had stabled Cawdor, and stood awaiting orders from Jack.

"We must have the rifles and ammunition from the storeroom, Pat," said Jack, "and quick must be the word. Kindly look after the boys, Pat. Zacchary, Pete, and the lot of you, go and bring the rifles; and don't forget, Pete, to bring a hammer. One moment, Pat; a couple of lanterns will be needed, as well as some matches."

Strange it is that fighting blood is transmitted from generation to generation, but so it proved in Jack Lovat's case. An ancestor of his had suffered death on Culloden field for what he considered his duty towards the unfortunate race of Stuarts, and Jack was prepared to lay down his life in the defence of the Kopje Farm.

In the excitement of the moment he forgot about his father's possible peril. His thoughts were concentrated on the question, "Can I strike a blow for the honour of the old country?" Jack had not gone through a course of metaphysics or logic. He was simply a lad, made a man before his time perhaps, and yearning for an outlet through which a vast flood of pent-up patriotism could be poured.

Pat and the "boys," in almost less time than it takes to relate, transferred the arms to the ostrich kraal. The weapons were in splendid order. Jack Lovat had seen to that. Many hours he had spent in cleaning the rifles, always hoping, boylike, that some day they would come in handy, when the Boers put in an appearance.

The ungainly-looking ostriches, penned in spaces of rectangular form, craned their far-stretching necks, all the while uttering the grunt peculiar to the birds, dubbed by naturalists Struthio Camelus.

A passage, four feet in width, ran between the inner walls of the kraal and the high hurdles forming the temporary home of the ostriches. Four feet above the flagged floor of the kraal were loopholes, and these presently had the barrels of rifles protruding from them.

A couple of thousand rounds of ammunition, in boxes holding one hundred each, were placed in handy positions, and Pete with much dexterity knocked off the lids of the boxes, thus exposing the little nickel-plated messengers of death.

Each "boy" was given a rifle, and by the way the magazines were charged it was evident that the weapons had been handled before.

Pat, who was peering through a loophole, cried out, "The beggars are coming, sorr, an' they're more than fifty strong."

Jack, who was engaged in inspecting the "boys'" rifles, at once went up to Pat.

"How far off do you make them now, Pat?" he asked.

"Bedad! they seem to be only five hundred yards away," answered the Irishman. But Pat was wrong in his conjecture, and Pete at once corrected him.

"Dey be quite a mile from de farm, Baas Jack," said the Kaffir. "De eyes ob white men do not see right—at least not in dis country."

A peep through a loophole told Jack that Pete's estimate was a correct one. The South African atmosphere is so clear that distance seems annihilated on the veldt.

Jack addressed a few words to the defenders of the farm. "Boys," he began, "before long we may be in a tight hole. I am going to run the show for what it is worth. It shall never be said that Christian Uys and his men took Kopje Farm without a shot being fired. You boys, of course, know what it will mean if any of you are captured with arms in your hands. A sjambokking first, and possibly after that a Mauser bullet through the head. We must have no white-flag business here. If any of you boys don't care to fight, there is time for you to get away over the kopje. Pat and I mean to stay here till the last."

"We stay with the baas as well," said Pete emphatically; and in Kaffir fashion the whole of the "boys" held up their right hands, extending the index finger in a significant manner.

"Thanks," returned Jack. "And now to business!"

The eyes of the Kaffirs were fixed on something behind Jack, and the latter noting this, turned quickly round. To his great surprise, his eyes fell upon the figures of his mother and Mary.

"This is no place for you, mother," said Jack. "You must return to the house. It is quite safe there."

"But what does this mean, Jack?" asked Mrs. Lovat, pointing to the ammunition boxes and rifles. "This will be death to someone. My dear boy, pray do be careful."

"All right, mother," said Jack, with a laugh. "I'll be more than careful. But you must go back to the house. You will only be in the way here."

"I am almost distracted, Jack. Your father may be dead;" and Mrs. Lovat broke into a paroxysm of tears. "This cruel war is killing me. Why cannot things be settled without recourse to bloodshed?"

Had Mrs. Lovat passed through the same experiences as many settlers' wives in Natal and the northern parts of Cape Colony, the exclamation might have been a justifiable one. As it was, the black wings of Azrael, the Angel of Death, were beginning to flap over the Kopje Farm, and the ostrich farmer's wife, whose nature was a curious compound of kindness, fear, credulity, and misgiving, began to show signs of fainting.

Not so Mary Lovat. Although only a girl in her early teens, she possessed a large share of her brother Jack's mental and moral courage, and she came up and whispered in Jack's ear, "Mother will go back to the house with me, but I should so much like to stay here."

Pat O'Neill ended Mary's whispering somewhat abruptly, but quietly. He had been patrolling the rough ground outside the Kopje Farm, and coming inside the walled enclosure, walked swiftly up to Jack.

"The Boers are near at hand, sorr," he whispered. "What is the missis doing here? This is no place for ladies. Shall I take them across to the house?"

The next moment, Mrs. Lovat and Mary, escorted by Pat and Moses, were passing under the shelter of the dry stone wall to the farmhouse, and Moses, who had his rifle and a supply of ammunition with him, was told to stay with the "missis" until he was sent for.

Having seen the two ladies seated in the dining-room, with Moses acting as their guard, Pat returned at breakneck speed to the kraal, where he found Jack examining the approaching horsemen attentively through a pair of field glasses.

The twilight of South Africa is of short duration, but the light was still good.

"They are Boers," said Jack, handing the glasses to his faithful henchman. "Just give a look, Pat, and tell me, if you can, how many there are, and what distance they are now from the farm."

Pat placed the binocular to his optics and gazed for a moment down the valley, after which he spoke.

"Right you are, sorr; they're Boers sure enough, and well within half a mile av us. About fifty or more, I should say, sorr, an' a big fellow in front is houlding a white flag. You saw the chap, sorr, the man on the gray horse. Now they have halted, and, bedad, the man is coming forrard. See for yourself, sorr;" and the worthy Irishman handed back the glasses to his young master.

It took but a moment to convince Jack that Pat was right, and that a Boer was approaching under a flag of truce.

"Inside at once, Pat!" our hero cried; and the pair entered the kraal.

"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?"

"Have you any horses at the farmstead just ahead?" asked the stranger. "This is a part of Christian Uys's commando, and we want a few Boer ponies badly."

"You said Boer ponies?" said Pat interrogatively.

"I spoke plainly enough, I think," answered the Boer. "We are in need of a few horses, which the British Government will pay for. We will give a receipt for them."

"The master has some grand nags," said Pat, "but av course he will want payment for them. Can you pay on the nail?"

The Boer, who was not by any means a bad-looking man of about fifty, laughed outright at Pat's insouciance.

The Irishman went on: "Will the paper hould good if the master lets you have them?"

"When the vierkeleur flies over the whole of South Africa, your master will be paid in good gold, and that will be before many months are over," replied the Boer.

"And if the master does not care to part with the animals?" inquired Pat.

"We'll take them, of course," replied the Boer. "We are tired of bloodshed, but we have won the day; the rooineks can't deny that fact. You see the burghers behind me? Well, we are some of the fellows who cut up your crack regiments at Sanna's Post."

"Then I may return an' tell the master that you'll pay for the nags?" asked Pat.

"Certainly, but don't be long about it," replied the Boer; "and tell your employer's son—for the master of the house is not at home, and won't be to-night—that any attempt at double-dealing will be harshly dealt with. Within ten minutes from now we will advance upon the farm, and if necessary, take by force all we require."

Pat needed no further telling, but strolled back to the farmstead, wondering all the time whether a Boer bullet would lay him flat on the veldt or not.

The orange tints glimmering above the mountains were beginning to fade into a light purplish gray as Pat walked into the ostrich kraal.

Jack, naturally enough, was awaiting his return with some anxiety.

"They are Boers, Pat?" queried Jack.

"Boers, sure enough," responded Pat, "an' they've come to commandeer the horses. The chap wid the white flag says they will pay for them when the Boer flag waves over this heathen part av the world."

"That is enough for me," said Jack, after he had listened to Pat's brief narration. "We will wait until we see them on the move towards us. After that, they can look to themselves."

The minutes seemed long, but at last, through the dim twilight, the Boer on the gray horse was seen waving his flag, as though beckoning his fellow-burghers to advance.

On seeing this, Jack Lovat elevated his rifle, pulled the trigger, and the bullet went whistling high over the heads of the Boers.

The commando instantly halted, and the advanced Boer rode quickly back to his comrades.

The burghers opened out in wide formation, and dismounting, poured in a volley. The majority of the bullets splashed against the rough stones forming the wall of the ostrich kraal.

"Now, boys," cried Jack, "that is just what I wanted. Take a careful, steady aim. Don't fire too wildly, and let every one select his man. There is yet enough light to see them by. Take the word from me."

Instantly the muzzles of nine rifles peeped through as many loopholes, and Jack gave the word, "Fire!"

The reports rang out as one, and the defenders of the farm could see that some of their shots had taken effect, for a couple of Boer horses broke loose, and with clattering hoofs came galloping towards the ostrich kraal. A desultory fire came from the Boers, but as yet no bullets had entered the loopholes.

"Empty your magazines," cried Jack, "but wait for my orders. Now, boys, one, two, three," and at each successive number a tiny horizontal sheet of flame shot from the loopholes.

Yells of rage could be heard from the Boers, mingled with groans, after which the sounds of galloping hoofs were borne on the night air, followed by complete silence.

It was now quite dark, and after waiting, it must be said somewhat anxiously for several minutes for a renewal of the attack, Jack ordered Pat to light the lanterns, and the Irishman instantly obeyed, and showed himself an adept at the work.

Carefully shading the lighted match, so that no stray rays of light could creep through the loopholes, Pat lit the lanterns, when the whinnying of horses outside attracted Jack's attention.

"Remain here, Pat," said Jack. "I'm going across to the house, to give a look to my mother and sister. Keep a sharp look-out while I am gone, in case the beggars come back."

Saying this, Jack walked out into the darkness, and the next moment stumbled against a horse. He, however, walked swiftly towards the house, and found Moses, rifle in hand, guarding the hall. Jack had taken the precaution of shouting out as he approached, for he by no means relished the idea of a bullet being planted between his ribs.

Mrs. Lovat and Mary were still in the dining-room, and as Jack entered, the former exclaimed, "What is the meaning of all this firing, Jack?"

"It means, mother, that if there had been no firing, the Boers would before now have emptied our stables. We have beaten them off, I think."

"Has anyone been hurt?" inquired Mrs. Lovat nervously.

"Not on our side, mother," replied Jack, with a laugh; "as far as the Boers are concerned, I do not know. If any harm has happened to father, then I hope we have killed the lot of them. Moses is still on guard, mother; you need have no fear. I shall be back presently;" and he walked out of the room.

Moses, whose white teeth gleamed as Jack passed him, said, "Dings are all right, Baas Jack. I will see dat no Boers come in here to frighten de missis an' de little missie."

"Quite right, Moses," observed Jack cheerfully. "Give the beggars beans if they come."

"I'll do dat, baas," replied the grinning Kaffir.

An hour later the moon, which was on the wane, would creep over the kopje, and give the defenders of the farm a chance to locate their now unseen assailants.

A deep silence hung over the place, and Jack groped his way along the wall leading to the ostrich kraal. Pat evidently knew his work, for the place was in darkness.

Suddenly a challenge rang out: "Is that you, sorr?"

The speaker was Pat, whom Jack found outside the kraal, holding a couple of horses.

"All right, Pat," answered Jack. "The Boers seem to have departed."

"Then I'll take these nags inside, sorr, an' have a look at them. The poor things are trembling all over their bodies down to their fetlocks."

Jack entered the kraal, followed by Pat, dragging the dumb brutes behind him.

"A light here, Pete," said Jack; and the Kaffir foreman brought a shielded lantern. Jack turned on the light, and by its aid examined the horses.

By the saddlery on the animals, he came to the conclusion that the horses had a couple of hours before formed part of the equipment of Christian Uys's commando, and a patch of clotted blood on the saddle and off stirrup of one of the horses told its own tale.

"Bring the light a little closer, Pat. I want to see the——"

Jack Lovat never finished the sentence, for a fierce fusillade was directed at the kraal from the immediate outside, and Zacchary, who was standing leaning on the butt of his rifle with his head on a level with a porthole, tumbled over—never to rise again, for a Mauser bullet had found its billet in the unfortunate Kaffir's head.

"To the loopholes, boys!" cried Jack; and the defenders replied with a will to the fire of the unseen enemy. For half an hour a constant fusillade was kept up, but without further loss to the defenders of the kraal, after which the Boer fire ceased.

Their attempt to storm the kraal had failed. Very tenderly Jack Lovat and Pat carried the stricken Zacchary to a corner of the kraal, and covered the dead body with some empty mealie sacks, after which Jack paid another visit to the house, where he found his mother and Mary quite safe.

A couple of hours were spent by Jack and Pat in reconnoitring, but all traces of the Boers had vanished, with the exception of a dead horse, which evidently had been wounded and managed to crawl towards the farm, where it had dropped down and died.

About two o'clock in the morning a sheet of flame, accompanied by the reports of many rifles, was seen far down the valley.

"They have come up with some Britishers, Pat," said Jack.

"By the powers!" observed the Irishman, "they seem to be hard at work. I would give something to be there."

For some minutes the firing lasted, then ceased, and shortly afterwards the sound of horses' hoofs could be heard coming up the valley.

Jack and his followers instantly manned the loopholes, but the strangers came steadily on.

"Shall I challenge them, sorr?" asked Pat; and without waiting for a reply, the brave Irishman passed out of the kraal, and with a stentorian voice called out, "Halt! who comes there?" at the same time levelling his rifle at the approaching figures.

"It is I, Pat!" shouted the master of the Kopje Farm; and the next moment Mr. Lovat had Jack in his arms, exclaiming, "It was a near shave, Jack, but I am glad I am able to see you all once more."

Mrs. Lovat and Mary were delighted beyond measure at Mr. Lovat's return, and with much trembling listened to the account of his adventures since he left the Kopje Farm on the previous morning.

### CHAPTER IV
MR. LOVAT'S ADVENTURE

Little did Mr. Lovat dream of the adventures he would pass through that morning as he drove away from Kopje Farm in the direction of Springbokfontein. Bessie was in good condition, and trotted swiftly between the shafts of the Cape cart, and the crisp air exhilarated man and beast.

When a couple of miles from home, he met an acquaintance riding a Cape pony, and pulled up to pass the time of day.

"Well, Mr. Bassett," said the ostrich farmer, "any news of the Boers?"

Mr. Bassett—a sturdy, thick-set man of middle age, who during his lifetime had tried his hand at nearly every kind of occupation, and now combined the office of land valuer with that of gold prospector—replied, "I've just come from Springbokfontein, Mr. Lovat, and rumours are flying thick and fast about Christian Uys being in the neighbourhood with a commando. This Uys is a very daring fellow, and has proved himself to be a most capable leader. Their stock of horses, I suppose, is getting low, and naturally enough the Boers want to replenish their store."

"Certainly," observed Mr. Lovat. "I suppose the town guard at Springbokfontein are on the alert?"

"Not half of them are to be trusted," replied Mr. Bassett grimly, "for I am afraid several of them are rebels at heart. You have left things all right up at the Kopje Farm, I hope?"

"Any Boers calling there will get a warm reception, I can assure you," replied Mr. Lovat, with a laugh. "I think that my son and the 'boys' will be able to give a good account of themselves, if they are interfered with. But I must be getting along, as I wish to be back by noon. Good-morning, Mr. Bassett;" and the ostrich farmer flicked Bessie with his whip.

The mare darted forward with a quick motion, and in a short time Mr. Lovat came to Jagger's Farm, the ruined building half way between the Kopje Farm and Springbokfontein.

The country was wild in the extreme. The road ran between a range of kopjes, at the bases of which were watercourses, dry in summer, but at times during the winter months raging torrents.

Jagger's Farm had an unenviable notoriety, several white men having been murdered in its vicinity. The building was surrounded by a roughly-built stone wall, which in many places was in a state of ruin.

The roadway was strewn with boulders of rock, and Mr. Lovat had to descend from his perch in the cart for the purpose of leading Bessie along the stony roadway.

The ostrich farmer was holding Bessie's head, for the mare made a stumble, when a harsh voice called out in Dutch, "Halt!"

To Mr. Lovat's dismay, he perceived six unkempt and fierce-looking men with heads and shoulders appearing above the farm wall, and the more ominous sight of a row of rifles pointed at him.

A couple of the Boers, for such they were, leaped over the wall and ran towards Mr. Lovat. The latter halted. The nature of the road and the murderous-looking Mausers dispelled any idea of escape, so grasping Bessie's reins tightly with his left hand, he faced the strangers, and said, "What do you want?"

"Your mare," answered one of the Boers in English.

"I won't sell her," said Mr. Lovat decisively. "She is not to be bought at any price. Allow me to pass, please."

A loud laugh burst from the Boers, the remaining three having joined their fellows in the roadway.

"Commandant Christian Uys requires the service of your horse. You will receive payment for it when the war is over," was the response Mr. Lovat received.

A couple of Boers sprang to the mare's head, evidently with the intention of unharnessing Bessie.

Grasping the handle of his whip, Mr. Lovat brought the butt end down with force upon the head of the Boer who had just spoken, and the Dutchman stumbled and fell in the roadway.

The next moment the ostrich farmer was lying senseless on the ground, having been knocked down by a blow from a clubbed rifle.

First came a vision of many-coloured stars, then oblivion; and the world for the time being was a blank to Mr. Lovat.

When he came to his senses, he found himself lying in the farmyard. His arms and wrists had been securely fastened behind his back, while his ankles were also tied. The Cape cart was standing close to where he lay, but the mare was gone.

Then his thoughts turned to the bag of gold, and though dazed and suffering from a violent headache, a remembrance of his encounter with the Boers flashed through his mind, and he gave vent to a heavy groan.

The farmyard was covered with rough veldt grass, which made his couch a less painful one than it would have otherwise been. A bundle of dirty, discarded Boer clothing lay beside him, and in the vehicle was a roughly made hamper, which was not there when he left home.

He thought about his wife, Mary, and Jack, and imagined their anxiety at his non-return. He tried to move, but was unable to do so, while the pain in his head was almost insufferable.

The sun climbed higher in the heavens, and its fierce rays beat upon his bare head. His physical pain grew greater, but the acuteness of his mind-suffering lessened, and at last he again relapsed into unconsciousness.

Then Mr. Lovat was brought to himself by some one shaking him.

The ostrich farmer looked up in a dazed sort of way, and the sight of a bronzed and stalwart Colonial trooper clad in khaki, and wearing a couple of bandoliers, met his gaze.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the trooper. "Ah! I see you are wounded. You are a Britisher, of course?"

In a few words, Mr. Lovat told the story of his capture, and the Colonial drawing out a clasp knife, cut the cords with which Mr. Lovat's arms and ankles were bound, after which the Irregular helped the farmer to his feet.

A little pool of semi-coagulated blood lay where his head had rested, and the trooper noticing the settler's pallid face, drew out a small flask containing brandy, and insisted on his taking a drink. The spirit revived Mr. Lovat, and he made a search for the bag containing the gold, but, alas! it too was gone.

While he was engaged in ruefully surveying the cart, the trooper was joined by half a dozen comrades, who had been busy searching the farm premises.

"Hullo, Morton!" said one of the troopers, addressing the Irregular who had released Mr. Lovat. "What is the matter?"

"This gentleman has evidently been held up by a party of Boers belonging to Christian Uys's commando," replied Morton. "The rascals have looted him of a bag containing five hundred sovereigns."

"Great Scot! that is what I call a haul," exclaimed a young trooper. "I didn't think there was so much money to be found in this blessed country. Give me New Zealand in preference to this wilderness."

"We're Auckland Rangers," explained Trooper Morton to Mr. Lovat, "and are on the track of Christian Uys, one of the best leaders the Boers possess. He is on the look-out for horses and stores, I think, and although we have been dogging his commando for some days we have not been able to come up with them. Ah! here come our other fellows."

A party of horsemen in files of four came clattering along the stony road, and presently halted at the entrance to the farmyard. The troopers were about thirty in number—hardy, stalwart young Maorilanders—commanded by Major Salkeld, a Colonial who had done splendid service during the siege of Wepener.

The troop had several spare horses with them, and after Morton had explained the situation to his officer, Mr. Lovat was offered a mount, which he gladly accepted.

The horses were given a feed, and the troopers snatched a hasty meal of bully beef and biscuit. During the repast Mr. Lovat detailed a few facts concerning his farm and the surrounding country to Major Salkeld, and it was settled that the party should proceed in the direction of the Kopje Farm. Possibly they might come across the marauders and be able to restore Mr. Lovat's lost property to him.

The harness belonging to the Cape cart had been wantonly hacked, so that the idea of the vehicle's removal had to be abandoned.

Kopje Farm lay a good distance up the valley, and before the little force had proceeded a mile, Major Salkeld called a halt.

Trooper Morton's quick eye had detected a body of horsemen defiling through a donga about a mile away on the New Zealander's left flank. Morton, who was acting as scout, at once returned and reported the fact to his officer, who instantly placed his field glass to his eyes. The major looked long and earnestly, then handing his binocular to Morton, said, "Just give a glance through these, and tell me what you make of them."

The scout applied the glasses, after which he handed them back to the major, saying, "They are Boers, sir, without doubt."

"And how many do you make of them?" inquired the officer.

"About forty, I should say, sir," answered the trooper. "They have a couple of led horses with them as well."

Major Salkeld turned to Mr. Lovat, who had been riding by his side, and pointing to the donga, asked, "Where does the bridle-path leading to the donga terminate, Mr. Lovat?"

"It runs up to a settler's farm, some seven or eight miles from here," replied Mr. Lovat. "The settler is a Dutchman named Van Donnop, and it is said that his three sons are on commando with the rebels."

"Ah!" muttered the major, "just so; and these fellows doubtless are making tracks for this farm to re-equip and get a fresh supply of ammunition and stores. I am sorry that we cannot see you home, but duty is always duty, and the exigencies of the service demand that when we get on the track of the Boers we must follow them up."

"I am going with you, if I may," said Mr. Lovat. "Possibly these fellows have my five hundred pounds, and I can hardly afford to lose that."

"I am afraid, my dear sir, that you have said good-bye to your gold," said the major. "However, if you care to accompany us, you can do so. You are looking better now than when I saw you first. I suppose you can shoot?"

"There are not many settlers who can't," answered Mr. Lovat, with a touch of dignity in the tones of his voice.

"I mean no offence," said the major. "Do you feel strong enough to go with us?"

"I'm all right now," replied the settler. "My head is somewhat sore, and the muscles of my neck a little stiff, but I would rather go on with you, sir."

"Very good, you shall," said the officer. Turning to Morton, he continued, "We have a spare rifle?"

"Half a dozen, sir," answered the trooper. "I have an extra one with me, which Mr. Lovat can have, if he understands the mechanism."

"Then kindly hand it over," said the major.

Turning again to the settler, the officer continued, "Luckily you have not been much troubled in these parts, but I'm afraid you soon will be. The Boers are getting short of ammunition, and these roving bands of burghers are merely the advanced guard of a bigger force of Boers. The supply of ammunition has been stopped through Lorenzo Marquess, and the burghers are making their way to Port Nolloth, and other places on the west coast, where contraband stuff in the shape of rifles and cartridges are to be had in plenty. I suppose the majority of the settlers about here are loyal?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question entirely in the affirmative. I know that I am, and all living in the Kopje Farm are loyal subjects of the King. Many young men have disappeared from the district, and I saw signs of the coming storm long before it burst."

"What! even in this remote part?" asked the Colonial officer.

"A couple of years before the war broke out, Boer emissaries went about from place to place, ostensibly as pedlars, but I am certain they were secret agents of the Transvaal Republic," answered Mr. Lovat.

The major addressed a few words to his men. They were brief and to the point:—

"Boys," he began, "I have no doubt that we are on the track of Christian Uys, and I sincerely trust we shall be able to lay him by the heels. Perhaps this is part of his commando in front of us. Be careful with your ammunition, for we have none to spare. Don't waste it. I hope to be in Springbokfontein to-morrow when the regiment arrives; but in the evening we must harry the enemy, who I am pleased to say have on the whole proved honourable men. The day after to-morrow I promise you a couple of days' rest. Then we move on to Port Nolloth. Now, boys, a fairly good pace, but don't blow your horses."

The road, however, was so difficult that there was no prospect of the latter occurrence happening. The troopers could only proceed in double file, and the men were compelled to assume an oblong formation, which would have formed a splendid target for an enemy armed with Mausers or light field guns.

Morton, the most daring man in the Auckland Rangers, was well in front when a "Phit!" "Phit!" followed by a fusillade, caused him to halt.

The New Zealanders had been discovered by the enemy, who by this time had passed out of view. The bullets went whistling over the heads of the Colonials, who, on the order of Major Salkeld, retired to the shelter of a small donga, some two hundred yards in their rear.

Every fourth man was detailed to lead his own and three comrades' horses to a watercourse naturally protected by immense boulders of quartz.

Ten dismounted troopers were next ordered by the major to creep forward to the position they had just left, while the rest of the unencumbered advanced one hundred yards and flung themselves on the ground.

Mr. Lovat, savage at the loss of his gold, begged the officer to allow him to form one of the advanced party, and the major readily acceded to his request.

The ostrich farmer declared that he was all right,—the pain in his head had left him,—and Morton having glanced approval, Major Salkeld consented, and the eleven Imperialists crept forward on hands and knees towards the spot they had just vacated.

The sun was on the point of dropping below the western horizon, and in half an hour's time darkness would cover the veldt, so there was no time to be lost if the Boers were to be captured.

The long, low buildings which constituted Van Donnop's farmstead could be plainly seen, but the Boers had disappeared within a donga. Their approach to the farm, however, would be covered by the troopers' fire, and Morton and his fellow-Colonials waited impatiently for the enemy to emerge from the donga.

Presently a couple of Boers dashed across the space intervening between the donga and the farm.

Two shots rang out, and thin wreaths of bluish-tinted vapour hung round the muzzles of the rifles wielded by Mr. Lovat and Trooper Morton.

"Got him!" ejaculated the latter, as one of the Boers threw up his arms and fell from the horse. The animal, relieved of its burden, galloped wildly towards the farmstead.

The second Boer, on seeing his fellow-burgher fall, wheeled his horse quickly round and dashed furiously for the shelter of the donga.

A dozen leaden messengers of death whistled around him, but he and his steed passed through them unharmed.

With the exception of a solitary shot, no fire came in reply to the troopers' fusillade, and Morton waved to the remainder of the troop to come up, which the latter did.

A consultation was held between Major Salkeld and Morton, and it was eventually decided to await the darkness which would descend on the veldt. Under its cover an advance would be made on the farm.

Just as the last streaks of yellow light were fading into a mass of purplish gray, Morton begged his major to allow him to creep forward in the direction of the farm for the purpose of reconnoitring, and the officer assented.

Slinging his rifle behind his back, the scout slowly edged his way to where the stricken Boer lay on the veldt. The Free Stater was dead, for a couple of bullets had pierced his brain.

He was a rough-looking man with unkempt hair and beard, and the daring trooper, still prostrate, turned him over and coolly began to search his pockets.

Morton abstracted several documents, which he thrust into an inner pocket of his khaki tunic, after which he retraced his way to his comrades, still crawling on his hands and knees.

He handed the papers to Major Salkeld, who determined to advance at once on Van Donnop's farmstead. In answer to an interrogation from his superior, Morton explained that he had not seen any Boers except the dead one, and that the Dutch settler's farm betrayed no sign of life.

Ten minutes later, the New Zealanders were drawn up in front of the farm buildings, and Morton, always the first to volunteer for any hazardous duty, went straight to the front door of the house and began hammering with the butt of his rifle upon its stout panels.

Footsteps could be heard in the passage, and a voice called out in Dutch, "Who is there?"

"Open the door instantly," commanded Morton brusquely, "or I'll blow it in."

The door was unfastened by a man of immense girth of chest. His physiognomy showed his Dutch extraction.

"What do you want?" demanded the farmer gruffly. This time he spoke in English.

Morton in reply gave a shrill whistle, and the next moment a dozen troopers crowded into the wide passage, Major Salkeld being at their head.

"Now, then, Mynheer—whatever your name is, we want to have a look at the stores you have concealed in this building," began the major. "I shall also be glad to learn something about the whereabouts of Christian Uys and his commando."

"I know nothing about them," answered Van Donnop, for such he was.

"You can tell some other person that tale," observed Major Salkeld, with a laugh. "You have some food in the house, I suppose?"

Van Donnop looked at the speaker with a surly expression on his face.

"Oh, we shall pay for everything we consume," continued the officer. "Look sharp, my man;" and Van Donnop with bad grace led the way to a large kitchen, in which half a dozen Kaffirs, evidently farm hands, were seated round a log fire.

Food was supplied to the troopers, as well as forage for their horses, after which the premises were thoroughly searched for concealed arms; but the hunt proved fruitless. After paying for the supplies, the major and his troopers rested for a couple of hours.

Sounds of rifle-firing away to the west were heard, and soon after midnight the New Zealanders, accompanied by Mr. Lovat, set out for the Kopje Farm, and all earnestly hoped they would come across their brave and stubborn enemy.

And so they did; but with the exception of a few desultory shots fired at an uncertain range, and without any casualties on their side, Major Salkeld and his troopers, as related in the last chapter, arrived on the scene where Jack Lovat and his handful of Kaffirs had so bravely defended his father's farmstead.

### CHAPTER V
DIAMOND VALLEY

Jack Lovat was warmly congratulated by the New Zealanders on their arrival at the Kopje Farm, and the ostrich farmer naturally felt proud of his son.

The return of Bessie was described by Jack, and Trooper Morton said he had no doubt whatever that the animal which had bolted when its Boer rider was shot by Trooper Morton and Mr. Lovat was none other than the gallant little mare.

As soon as daylight broke, the Colonials, headed by Mr. Lovat, Jack, and Pete, examined the country in front of the ostrich kraal to a distance of a thousand paces.

Three dead Boers and two horses were found stretched on the veldt, and Jack Lovat had no difficulty in identifying the body of Jan Van Donnop, one of the sons of the Dutch settler of that name.

Jan and his brothers, Piet and Stephanus, had mysteriously disappeared from the neighbourhood soon after the outbreak of hostilities, and their father had given it out that the lads had gone to reside at East London with a relative in order to learn the trade of milling.

Mr. Lovat made a more important discovery. Attached to the saddle of a dead horse was the cowhide bag which the previous morning had contained his five hundred sovereigns, but which, alas! was now empty.

The pockets of the dead Boers revealed no traces of the lost gold, and Morton remarked, "I'm afraid, Mr. Lovat, you have said good-bye to the coin. None of these men are leaders."

Mr. Lovat was examining the features of one of the dead men, and without heeding the Colonial's remark, he said, "This fellow is the man who commandeered Bessie."

With the aid of pickaxes and spades, a trench was made by the New Zealanders, and the stricken Boers and their horses were decently interred, Jack Lovat taking charge of several mementos belonging to Jan Van Donnop.

Jack was possessed of a humane nature, and being far from illiterate and possessing a cosmopolitan turn of mind, he had not the racial prejudices so largely predominant during the awful struggle in South Africa which commenced at the end of the nineteenth century.

Morton had taken intuitively to Jack, and after the interment he whispered in the lad's ear, "Why don't you join us? The war is not half over yet, and there is sure to be a lot of fighting. Ask your father to allow you to come with us."

"I'm afraid he won't," answered Jack. "I wanted to join Driscoll's Scouts, but he refused, and I believe I have learned the first duty of a soldier."

"And pray, what is that?" queried the trooper.

"Why, obedience," replied Jack. "I owe that duty to my father, who is most kind to me. Besides, I hardly think it would be right for me to leave mother and Mary just now. Mary is my sister. You saw her when your fellows came here."

"Well, all I can say, youngster, is that you are a brick and no mistake," said the trooper enthusiastically. "What did you feel like when the Boers came up? Timid?"

"Hardly," remarked Jack laconically. "I was only sorry that they didn't try to storm in broad daylight. I mean about noon, say."

The trooper laughed outright at Jack's bold statement, and said, "Well, I thought we New Zealanders were a cool set of fellows, but you ostrich people take the cake."

The pair were approaching the Kopje Farm, bringing up the rear-guard, when Jack turned and asked, "You have been a soldier all your life, haven't you?"

The trooper laughed as he replied, "Oh dear no; I'm a working jeweller by trade, and when at home am engaged by a large firm in Auckland. When the mother country called for men, I volunteered for service in South Africa. Why do you ask the question, my lad?"

"I thought you had always been a soldier, for you look so like one," answered Jack; and Morton felt a trifle elated, for what man or boy exists who does not inwardly relish a small modicum of flattery?

"You have nothing in the shape of diamonds, I suppose, in this part of the country?" queried the trooper. "I have examined the clay in several dongas as we came along, and from what I know of mineralogy, I should say that diamonds are to be found in this district."

"Crystals are common enough about here," answered Jack. "I have a collection which I will show you when we reach the farm. Among the pebbles are several fine garnets and amethysts. One of our 'boys,' Pete by name, picked up a stone, which he found embedded in a sort of bluish clay only a fortnight ago. It is too dull, however, for a diamond."

During the few minutes occupied in the return to the farm, Morton thought deeply about what Jack had told him. He was a thorough patriot, but since he had been in South Africa his mind had dwelt largely on diamonds, for exaggerated accounts of the mineral resources of the veldt had reached New Zealand.

Mr. Lovat was a thoughtful man, and since the beginning of the war had laid up big supplies of eatables in the shape of hams, bacon, preserved meats, and tins of jam and marmalade.

It seemed as though the Kopje Farm had been designedly prepared for a siege, for in the big storeroom at the back of the house were provisions calculated by Mr. Lovat to last at least twelve months, and these were being added to.

The major determined to allow his men a few hours' rest, and the horses were off-saddled and given a good feed of corn, Jack Lovat paying particular attention to Morton's mare, which was a magnificent creature nearly seventeen hands high, and noted for its swiftness and sureness of foot.

Jack conducted his newly-made friend round the ostrich kraal, and explained the various operations connected with the hatching of eggs and the plucking of the birds' plumage, and the trooper evinced great interest in the young settler's narration.

The remains of poor Zacchary, the "boy" who was shot at the loophole, had been reverently interred, and Jack and his friend were standing alone beside the mound of freshly turned earth, when the latter observed, "Oh, by the way, Jack, I would very much like to have a look at that stone you spoke to me about."

"You mean the pebble Pete gave to me?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I think that is the nigger's name," replied Morton.

To the trooper's great surprise, Jack instantly fired up. "No, that won't do; we don't call our 'boys' niggers. They are our 'boys,' and faithful ones they are, too."

The New Zealander smiled at Jack's impetuosity, and remarked, "A very good trait in your character. Only we have seen so many Kaffirs since we have been in the country that all nice distinctions are washed out, and we call the blacks generally 'niggers,'—not a very gentlemanly expression, I admit."

"Our 'boys' maybe are above the general run," said Jack, "but they are tried and trusty ones. I shall never forget how they volunteered to a man to defend this place, when they might have slunk away. Their fate, too, if captured, they well knew, for they would have been brutally sjambokked and then shot. The boys stood up as good as the best of white men, and I admire them. Poor old Zacchary! Oh, you spoke about the stone my father's native foreman gave me; I will bring it;" and Jack walked across to the house, the New Zealander all the while admiring the stalwart figure of the ostrich farmer's son.

Jack presently returned, and handed the stone to Morton, who carefully examined it with the eye of an expert.

The pebble was about the size of a large hazel nut, with a straw-coloured tint, and Morton twirled it between his finger and thumb for quite a minute before speaking.

"The Colonial cut the cords."

"Do you know what this pebble really is?" he asked. An unusual brightness shone in his eyes as he spoke, and he glanced keenly at Jack.

"A pebble, of course," answered our hero. "Pete said he saw several others of the same kind where he found this one."

"And where did Pete find the stone?" queried the trooper.

"In a donga about a couple of miles from here, just over the kopje," answered Jack.

"I'll tell you something later on," said Morton,—"a thing that will probably astonish you."

Jack Lovat's eyes opened rather wider than usual as he asked, "Is the pebble a diamond?"

"A genuine stone, my lad, and just as good in quality as the Kohinoor. If you can lay your fingers on a dozen more such stones, you can give up ostrich farming and go back to the old country."

"If you are staying here any length of time, perhaps you will go with me to the donga. Pete knows the spot to a nicety," said Jack.

"We'll see," remarked the trooper. "I must look up the major and learn his plans. I should like nothing better than to pay a visit to this wonderful donga. You will excuse me now;" and he strode off towards his troopers, who were engaged in rubbing down their horses.

A hardier lot of warriors than the men of C Troop Auckland Rangers, it would be difficult to find or even imagine. Their ages ranged from twenty to forty, every man of them standing six feet and over. Maoriland indeed had sent its best sons to do battle for the empire, the centre of which is the little sea-girt isle whose ensign is the Union Jack.

The New Zealanders were right royally treated by the owner of the Kopje Farm, and Major Salkeld determined to remain until evening, when the horses would be up-saddled and preparations made for the march to Springbokfontein.

This was just what Morton desired, and at noon, guided by Jack Lovat and Pete, the New Zealander set out for the donga where the Kaffir had found the crystal.

Each of the trio carried a rifle, with a supply of ammunition. The ascent of the kopje was made with considerable difficulty; for path there was none, and treacherous holes were abundant.

"Be careful," said Jack, turning round to the Colonial. "A broken leg, or maybe two, won't be very nice."

"All right, my lad; I'm on the look-out for possible squalls," answered the trooper. "I wonder if we shall come across any Boers."

"That is hardly likely," observed Jack. "There are no roads beyond the top of the kopje, and no farms for a dozen miles."

The summit of the kopje was reached, when a grand panorama spread out in front of Jack Lovat and his two companions. Rheni Kop, a rugged kopje with a part of its summit shaped like the tower of a castle, loomed some half-dozen miles away. Leading to the kopje were two deep dongas, and it was to the one on the right that the trio were bound. For many years the donga had been known as Diamond Valley.

"Tell the 'boy' to lie down," said Morton, as soon as they arrived at the top of the kopje; "and you as well, Jack," he went on. "I want to have a peep round the country with my glasses. People don't look well sometimes on the skyline."

Jack and Pete at once obeyed instructions; and Morton, taking out his glasses, for a few moments peered through them.

"All's correct," he said, after replacing the glasses in their leather case. "I don't think any doppers are about here. And now, Jack, kindly instruct your 'boy' to show us the place where he found the pebble."

Jack said something to Pete in a low tone of voice, to which the Kaffir replied, "All right, Baas Jack. Come along;" and leading the way, Pete with careful steps made tracks towards the donga on the right.

Progress was necessarily slow, for boulders of rock, and little gullies are not conducive to rapid locomotion.

Onward the three tramped for a distance of half a mile, when Pete halted at a part of the donga where its side rose almost perpendicularly to a height of ten or twelve feet.

The rock was composed of gneiss, along which bands of bluish-coloured clay ran in horizontal layers.

"Dis was de place where I found de glass pebble, Baas Jack," said the Kaffir, pointing to a ledge of rock through which a small stream of water trickled.

Morton by this time had pulled out a large clasp knife and was engaged in chipping off portions of the blue clay, which yielded readily to the impact of the knife.

The weapon struck something hard, and withdrawing the knife, Morton cut away the clay surrounding it. After all, the object might only be a fragment of rock, but the New Zealander's heart began to beat faster than was its wont.

"By heavens," he muttered, "if this turns out to be a klip (diamond)!"

Presently the stone was in his hand, and he anxiously pared off the fragments of blue clay adhering to it.

"A crystallised stone, at any rate," he ejaculated, placing the find in the breast pocket of his tunic. He again proceeded to excavate more clay, when he was arrested by a cry from the Kaffir. "Look, Baas Jack," exclaimed Pete. "De Boers! de Boers!"

Morton's knife dropped out of his hand, and hastily picking up his rifle, he queried, "Where are they, Pete?"

"Down dere, baas," answered the Kaffir. "I saw de heads ob two Boers peep ober, about five hundred yards away. I am sure dey must——"

Pete's answer was prematurely finished, for the "pip-pop" of half a dozen Mausers rang out, and the next moment Jack Lovat, with blanched face, was lying on the ground, and a stream of blood trickled down the left sleeve of his jacket. Jack's rifle slipped from his grasp, and but for the safety catch, a bullet would probably have whizzed near Morton; for the barrel rested on a fragment of rock, and the New Zealander was directly in the line of fire.

The latter bent over Jack, who was writhing with pain. It was only the work of a moment for Morton to pick up his clasp knife and rip open a seam of the garment.

Jack, although a brave lad, winced, while the trooper examined the wound.

"Only a flesh hurt," said Morton; "lucky, though!" and swiftly applying the field dressing, he bound up the injured limb.

Another peculiar whistle heralded the approach of a shower of bullets fired by unseen marksmen.

"I guess we are in a tight hole now," soliloquised Morton. "We'll have to get a place of shelter somehow. Can you manage to walk, my lad?" addressing Jack. But our hero was already on his feet.

"I'm all right now," answered Jack, although he looked far from being in that desirable state.

"We must get down to the donga as quickly as possible; there will be more shelter. I'll carry you, Jack."

"No, no!" said Jack. "I can manage to walk. You might take my rifle, please, for my arm seems paralysed."

With some difficulty, Jack Lovat and his two companions made tracks for the kopje overlooking his father's farm, but long before the summit over which they meant to pass on their hands and knees was reached, Morton was bowled over by a bullet, and but for the friendly protection of a shoulder-strap buckle, would undoubtedly have been killed. As it was, the missile, after being deflected by the buckle, lodged in the muscles of his upper right arm, and rendered that member useless.

Although in great pain, with blood trickling from the unstanched wound, the New Zealander, forming the rear-guard, turned his face in the direction of the Kopje Farm, and with tightened lips moved forward towards the summit.

They had not proceeded more than a hundred paces when the scout stumbled and fell.

The hardy frame of the New Zealander, stricken as he was, could not stand the strain, and he tumbled over in a dead faint.

"This is a predicament, Pete," said Jack, as he bent over the prostrate figure. "We must, however, get to some place of shelter;" and the brave lad looked around him.

A natural cave opened its yawning mouth about fifty yards away, and towards its friendly shelter Pete and Jack managed to drag their still unconscious ally.

The firing had ceased, but Jack had the conviction they were still being watched by the enemy.

The cave was the mouth of a depression such as is commonly seen among the kopjes of South Africa, and with some difficulty, for Jack's arm was powerless, the wounded trooper was carried inside. Morton soon regained consciousness, but his mind was clouded, and he talked somewhat incoherently.

"Keep the beggars off, my lad," he said to Jack. "This confounded wound has disabled me."

Our hero asked for the loan of Morton's glasses, and creeping to the mouth of the cave, glanced along the donga.

He thought he saw objects above the rocks at a distance of some five hundred paces, and came to the conclusion that what he saw were slouch-hats worn by invading Boers.

The slouch-hats seemed to advance. He glanced again, but boulders of rock only met his gaze. Soon the hats grew larger in size and number, and a mist spread before Jack's vision. Rheni Kop with its castellated tower became a blurred image, even through the clear atmosphere of the veldt.

"Pete!"

"Yes, Baas Jack," answered the Kaffir.

"Come here, and tell me what you make of these things."

The Kaffir crept to Jack's side, but refused the glasses which Jack had handed to him.

"My eyes are good, baas. I can see well widout dese," said Pete. "We are done for, Baas Jack. More dan fifty ob de rascals are coming. Shall I fire, baas?"

"No, certainly not, Pete," replied Jack, whose wound had infused in the lad's mind a certain amount of wholesome discretion.

"Dey have de white flag up, baas," said Pete. "Dere be five comin' dis way. Shall I fire?" and the eyes of the Kaffir sparkled. Pete went on: "De foremost one is Piet Van Donnop, de brute who once sjambokked me for nuthing. May I fire, baas? I can bring him down like an aasvogel (vulture)."

"Nothing of the sort, Pete," replied Jack. "We are powerless. Let them come on."

"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.

### CHAPTER VI
A CAPE REBEL

The Dutchman whom the unfortunate Pete had floored was Piet Van Donnop, a son of the farmer of that name. Although stunned by the blow administered by the Kaffir, he soon regained consciousness.

A number of infuriated Boers stood around the mouth of the cave, gesticulating wildly in the guttural Taal tongue.

Jack and Morton could both be plainly seen. The ostrich farmer's son had risen to his feet, and gazing steadily at a Boer who had covered him with his rifle, cried, "Shoot, you coward!"

The next moment would have been Jack's last, had not a powerful arm struck up the rifle barrel. Piet Van Donnop saved our hero's life.

"Oh, it is you, Lovat," said Piet, whose head was covered with a bloodstained bandage. "What are you doing here, and who is your companion? Ah! one of the rooibaatjes, I see."

Morton struggled to his feet and faced the Boers.

"I'm not a rooibaatje," said Morton, "but I am fighting in their cause. You can do your worst. I'm not a hands-upper, or a white-flagger either," he continued scornfully.

The Boers withdrew a few paces, but not before securing the two rifles and the bandoliers worn by Jack and Morton.

A consultation took place among the burghers, and Jack's quick ears detected among other sentences the words, "Shoot the dogs." Their fate was evidently trembling in the balance, and Jack's thoughts wandered to the Kopje Farm, his father, mother, and Mary.

Then a bearded man of immense stature stepped into the cave and approached Morton, who with a pallid face was leaning against a boulder of rock.

The Boer addressed Morton in good English. "To what regiment do you belong, rooinek?" he demanded.

"That is my business," answered the scout haughtily. "I decline to answer."

"Where are your fellows?" asked the Boer, without displaying any sign of temper.

"I decline to give you any information whatever," replied Morton.

"A sjambok may elicit what I desire to know," said the Boer grimly. "You are speaking now to Christian Uys. You have heard of me, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, I have," answered the scout. "We have been trying for some time to locate you."

"Pray be careful in what you say," said Uys. "You are not an Englishman?"

"I am not," said Morton, "but I fight under the British flag."

"You belong to the New Zealand corps called Rangers," said Uys in a peculiar tone of voice. "You see we burghers can beat your boasted Intelligence Department. Bah! the British Government with their hundreds of thousands of rooibaatjes cannot beat a few simple farmers;" and Uys gave vent to a loud laugh.

The Boer went on: "We want to catch a man of your regiment. Morton is his name. You know him, I suppose?"

"I decline to answer any of your questions," replied the trooper firmly.

"Well, when you reach your corps, you might tell this Morton, that if we catch him, a sjambokking awaits him, followed by a dose of lead. He has already killed five of my best men."

Jack Lovat was listening with bated breath to the conversation, and he wondered at the cool courage displayed by the New Zealander.

Piet Van Donnop came forward in answer to something put to him by the Boer leader.

"How is your father, Jack?" asked Piet; "and I must not forget your mother and little Mary. I suppose she is quite a woman by now."

"They are all right," replied Jack. "I never thought you would have joined the rebels, Piet."

"And why not, Jack?" asked Piet. "They are my own flesh and blood, and I am only fighting for my own. The commandant wishes me to ask you how many troopers are quartered at the Kopje Farm? I ought to have been there now, but I am acting as despatch rider for the commando."

The question was put in Dutch, a language Morton was not conversant with.

"The commandant had better find out for himself. You will get a warm reception if you go to the Kopje Farm," replied Jack testily.

"That is just what we are going to do," said Van Donnop. "I have my brother Jan's death to avenge. I have heard he is dead."

"But not on my father, Piet?" queried Jack. "His only fault is that of being a loyalist. You had better tell the commandant to leave the Kopje Farm severely alone, if his men don't want to receive a shock from which they will not soon recover."

Piet laughed at this, after which he said, "All right, Jack, you have to come with us. Your friend will remain where he is until we come back for him."

"No, I won't leave him," cried Jack. Turning to Morton, he went on: "They want me to go along with them and leave you here, but Jack Lovat is hardly built that way."

The trooper stared, and there was a world of meaning in the glance he bestowed on Jack. The glance said quite plainly, "Go," and the look was accentuated by a slight nod.

"Pete delivered a stroke with his weapon."

"We must trouble you for those boots," said the commandant. "No, we want nothing else. I see the spurs are pretty well worn. It won't be policy on your part to offer any resistance. Hans Erasmus," calling to one of his men, "you are badly in need of a pair of boots. Take these," and he pointed to Morton's boots. The Boer, an unkempt fellow, whose clothes were almost in rags, certainly was in need of foot-gear, for the soles had left the uppers, and his toes protruded from beneath the untanned leather. To Jack's surprise, Morton made no resistance, but allowed the Boer to annex the boots.

The latter soon transferred them to his own feet, and expressed his satisfaction at the exchange by uttering a guttural "Ach!"

"You are wounded?" said Uys, addressing Morton.

"I would not be here talking to you if I had not been," replied the trooper. "It is a mere scratch, though. You don't use expanding bullets, or explosive ones, for that matter. It is very good of you, I'm sure."

"Don't be sarcastic, my good man. You are quite sure you can make yourself comfortable till we come back?"

"I shall be all right," replied Morton. "The sooner you leave me the better I shall like it."

Commandant Uys smiled. "You are rather a humorous sort of fellow. May I ask you one question?"

"As you please," answered Morton gruffly.

"How long will it take for you to reach the Kopje Farm? Don't stare, my man. We are pretty well informed as to all movements made by the rooibaatjes. I should ask you to unstrip your tunic, but that would be a waste of energy, because you Colonials who act as scouts carry no identity cards. I am afraid we must inconvenience you for a little time. You shall not, however, go hungry. Stephanus, a piece of biltong for the rooinek. You will like it, for it is good fare while serving on the veldt."

Saying this, Commandant Uys strode out of the cave to where his burghers were standing near their horses.

A minute later, Morton, whether against his wish or not, found his ankles firmly secured by a piece of hide rope. His hands had been left unbound, but without a knife it was an impossibility to set himself free, and that instrument had been taken from him.

Jack Lovat was compelled to mount one of the spare horses belonging to the sections of the commando, and to his infinite satisfaction found that the horses' heads were turned in the direction of Rheni Kop, instead of the Kopje Farm. A bullet between his ribs from the rifle of a Britisher was too unpleasant a possibility to contemplate, so he felt devoutly thankful when he found himself proceeding in an opposite direction.

Glances full of meaning had passed between Jack and Morton, and the latter knew that his boy-friend would leave no stone unturned to assist him from his unenviable position.

After leaving the cave, the Boers rode straight on Rheni Kop, Piet Donnop being alongside our friend Jack.

"What brings you here, Lovat?" asked Piet in English, and speaking in a whisper. "Diamond Valley seems to have an attraction for you."

"And for you as well, I should say," retorted Jack.

"Looking after gold, or what?" queried Piet.

"I was not aware that gold is to be found in these parts," answered Jack. "What do you mean by roaming about the country, robbing and molesting peaceable inhabitants? Do you know anything about the five hundred sovereigns my father lost only yesterday?"

A flush spread over the Dutchman's swarthy face as he answered, "I have had none of Mr. Lovat's sovereigns."

"Then you know about the way my father has been treated?" Jack asked.

Piet evaded the question, and merely said, "I am sorry we came up with you to-day, Lovat. I, at least, bear you no ill-will; but I would strongly advise you to keep your tongue still and ask no ugly questions. It is unfortunate that we met you. Does your wound pain you?"

"Only a slight stiffness and soreness inconveniences me—that is all," answered Jack. "By the way, where are we bound for?"

"Number one, ugly question," replied Piet. "I may as well tell you that you won't see Kopje Farm to-night, and most probably not to-morrow."

"And what about my friend whom you have tied up in the cave? You will surely never leave him to starve?" queried Jack.

"By no means," answered Piet, with a laugh. "He will be released in good time—that is, when the commandant thinks fit. Christian Uys has something up his sleeve." The last sentence was uttered in a whisper.

"And what is that, Van Donnop?"

"Ugly question, number two," was the Dutchman's response. "You know what you Britishers say, 'The third time is catching-time.' I am right, I suppose?"

After that, Jack Lovat held his peace, but did not forget to use his eyes. Life on the veldt had taught him many lessons. Like the Red Indians of the western prairies, Jack had studied rocks, flowers, the sun, moon, and stars in their various phases, and in veldt-craft was becoming a past-master.

For an hour the commando rode ahead, and when halted by order of Christian Uys, had passed round Rheni Kop, which now stood four or five miles on their left flank.

The Boers debouched on a grassy plain, very limited in extent, and surrounded by little flat-topped kopjes.

To Jack's immense surprise, he saw forty or fifty waggons and Cape carts on the plain. Several hundred horses and many head of oxen were grazing on the veldt, and at least two hundred additional burghers were in the laager.

These formed the major portion of the formidable Christian Uys's commando, and Jack Lovat as he passed into the laager thought he had never seen such a motley crew.

Many of the burghers glanced at Jack from beneath their bushy eyebrows, bestowing ominous scowls on the young Britisher, which he answered with a haughty stare.

The burghers off-saddled, and after giving their horses a feed of mealies, began to refresh themselves with a repast of biltong, biscuits, and jam.

Jack was placed under a guard, one of whom he was glad to find was Piet Van Donnop. Under his protection our hero knew that he would receive no ill-treatment.

Van Donnop insisted upon Jack receiving medical treatment from a burgher who had walked a Berlin hospital, but whose indiscretions had caused him to be expelled before he took his degree.

Dirck Hartmann, for such was the medico's name, proved a very agreeable sort of young fellow, and showed great kindness to Jack. He examined the boy's wound, and found that a bullet had passed through the fleshy inner portion of the arm, luckily without touching an artery. As Jack said, it was a scratch—an ugly one it must be said; but the prompt application of the field dressing by Morton had minimised the loss of blood. The limb felt stiff and sore—that was all.

"You will see that this young fellow has good treatment," said Hartmann to Piet Van Donnop, as he left Jack.

"Certainly, doctor," was Piet's reply. "He is in safe hands with me;" for which Jack thanked him.

As the sun was on the point of dropping below the horizon, the Boer sentries were planted on the kopjes surrounding the plateau, and Jack was ordered to crawl into a waggon, on the floor of which were spread several layers of empty mealie bags.

Before he went to roost, Jack's observant eyes had been busy. He noticed with keen interest the picketing of the horses in the immediate vicinity, and deep satisfaction sprang up in his breast as he thought of a sharp bowie knife which he carried in the leg of one of his high boots.

He had made a strong resolve to get away from the laager before morning broke, and he determined that nothing short of utter disablement would prevent him from accomplishing his purpose.

The resolve was strengthened by a conversation he overheard between two burghers, soon after darkness fell. Jack's thoughts were passing between the bowie knife, secreted in his boot, and the picketed horses. Among the latter was a beautiful roan, evidently the property of a field-cornet or other officer.

His mind also wandered to the Kopje Farm. He wondered what they were doing, and if Major Salkeld and his men had departed for Springbokfontein. Then he thought of Morton lying bound in the cave in Diamond Valley.

Jack had stretched himself on the mealie sacks when he heard his family name mentioned, and his ears were all attention in a moment.

"Hans," said a voice in a low whisper, "the rooineks will have no chance at all. Johann Klaasen has just come in, and reports that thirty of them are leaving the Kopje Farm for Springbokfontein in the early dawn to-morrow. That is good news, for every man of them will be shot down before they have proceeded two miles on their journey. Half of the commando—one hundred and fifty strong—have left for Langeman's Nek, where there is abundant shelter for our men. These New Zealanders boast about never requiring quarter. They will get none;" and a low chuckle followed.

Jack Lovat's breath came thick and fast. He knew Langeman's Nek very well, and as the speaker hinted, he knew it formed an admirable place of ambush.

The minutes seemed to pass on leaden wings to the British youth so strangely confined in the camp of a savage enemy. Jack's mind was made up. He would use his utmost endeavour to escape from the laager, and if he could not secure the roan mare, make his way on foot to the Kopje Farm, provided no other mount came in his way.

At last complete silence reigned in the laager, and Jack cautiously raised himself on his elbow and peered over the side of the waggon. His sense of hearing was overstrained by his peculiar and dangerous position. He thought he heard the flap of a rifle-strap as if it struck the barrel of a Mauser rifle, and lay quietly down again.

A few minutes later, he again pulled himself up, and without noise clambered over the side of the waggon, then dropped on the ground. His wounded arm caused him much pain, but he set his teeth and bore it bravely. The night was a black one, but his keen eyesight informed him that the picketed horses had been removed from the vicinity of the waggon.

Jack fell on his hands and knees, and crawled forward, cautiously winding his way between the wheels of several waggons.

At last he was clear of the laager, and the ring of pickets only had to be passed. Still on his hands and knees he crept, his heart beating violently, and sharp pains darting through his temples. If only he could get safely through, he would trust to Providence to guide him safely to the Kopje Farm.

A gaunt figure, standing by a horse, attracted his attention, and a voice called out in Dutch, "Who goes there?" The question was followed by an ominous clicking sound. Jack still crawled forward, his right hand now gripping the bowie knife. His strength was almost exhausted, and the pain in his arm increased in severity.

With rare courage and determination, Jack sprang to his feet, plunged the bowie knife into the chest of the bewildered sentry, who immediately fell, at the same time relaxing his grasp of the horse's reins. It took but a moment for Jack to mount, and digging his spurless boots into the sides of the commandeered property, he darted across the veldt.

### CHAPTER VII
A WEIRD ADVENTURE

For a couple of miles Jack rode hard across the veldt—not without risk, for several rifle shots rang out, and bullets whizzed perilously near his ears. His escape had evidently been discovered.

When he pulled up his panting steed, he had completely lost his bearings. All that he could do was to wait for the rising of the moon, when he trusted to his knowledge of veldtcraft to guide him to the Kopje Farm.

The horse which he rode was flecked with foam, and the poor brute trembled in every limb.

"Well, I reckon I'm in a fine pickle now," muttered Jack, as he dismounted. Slipping his arm into the horse's bridle, he led the animal towards a small kopje, whose summit was indistinctly lined against the dark sky.

He had an idea that he had seen the kopje before, but was not sure. He would wait a little longer.

The base of the kopje was fringed with a growth of various kinds of bushes, and the fear of tumbling into unseen depressions on the veldt, and prospective chances of broken limbs, made him very cautious.

The welcome light of the moon soon spread over the veldt, and Jack examined the saddlery on the back of his newly acquired steed.

To his great joy, he found a holster-case attached to the saddle, and inside the case was a revolver loaded in every chamber. He was now provided with a means of defence, if attacked by man or beast.

Once or twice, he had heard what seemed to be low rumblings of thunder; but the sky was clear, and the wonderful stars glittered with a brightness only seen in Southern latitudes.

He tried to locate his position, but had to dolefully confess to himself that he was lost, and that he could not recognise any spot on the landscape.

The horse was still trembling in every limb, as though some unknown terror were creeping over it. He tried to drag the beast forward, but it refused to budge, and a strange fear crept through Jack's mind.

He had had a little experience of the king of beasts, and he came to the conclusion that the horse had scented danger in the shape of lions.

His fears were soon realised, for a loud roar burst upon his ears, and two pairs of shining yellow eyes peered at him from beneath a big mimosa bush.

His heart sank as it were into his boots, and he dragged his horse's head round. His first thought was to mount and make all haste from the spot, but his limbs seemed temporarily paralysed.

The growling increased, beginning with a blood-curdling wail that ended in a terrific roar.

The ground seemed to tremble beneath Jack's feet, and he gave himself up for lost. The opposition of armed men had no terrors for Jack Lovat, but he could not contemplate with equanimity the probability of being devoured piecemeal by infuriated lions.

He retreated slowly, still leading the horse, but keeping his eyes fixed on the globes of fire which seemed to advance.

Two long tawny forms began a crouching march towards the ostrich farmer's son, and Jack clutched the revolver with a nervous grip, his forefinger pressing lightly on the trigger. If the horse should happen to break away, all would be up.

The tawny forms were but a few paces away, crouching low down, as though about to make a spring, so grasping the pommel of the saddle, with an energy born of despair, Jack vaulted into the seat, and set forth at a rapid gallop.

His spirits rose as he sped onwards, and he was congratulating himself upon his very narrow escape, when his horse stumbled and fell on the veldt, with a terrible crash, throwing Jack over its head.

Our hero thought that every bone in his body had been broken, but he managed to stumble to his feet.

To his horror, he found that his horse's right fore-leg was broken, and the poor beast unable to stand.

The two hideous forms were following, and even now were only a few yards distant.

Jack prayed fervently for deliverance, and before he could realise what was happening, the fierce brutes had sprung upon the horse, which was screaming in agony.

He could hear a terrible crunching sound as the lions began munching their yet alive prey.

He dared not expend a shot, and deeming prudence to be the better part of valour, he left the unfortunate horse to the cruel mercies of the lions, and ran as fast as he could across the veldt, trusting that the savage beasts would satiate their hunger upon the horse's carcass, and refrain from pursuing him.

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.

The Dutchman nearly stepped upon Jack, before he saw our hero; then bringing his rifle to the present, the Boer cried, "Who goes there? Speak, or I'll fire!" This was said in deep guttural Dutch, and the next moment Jack found himself again a prisoner.

Our hero felt thankful that he had not fallen into the hands of Transvaalers, who, justly or unjustly, bore a shady reputation for cruelty.

"Who and what are you?" demanded the Boer. "A rooinek?" The tones of the Free Stater were not unkind.

"Are there any more of you?" the sentry continued, glancing warily around.

"I am alone," replied Jack, who when he saw the Boer advancing towards him, threw his revolver away.

"Alone?" said the Boer. "And why are you prowling about here at this time of the night? You speak our language well. Are you one of us, or what?"

Jack made no reply, and the Boer commanded him to move towards the camp-fire, bringing up the rear.

Here the Boer roused up a man, dressed in somewhat superior clothing to his fellows, and whom he addressed as Veldt-cornet.

"A prisoner, Veldt-cornet," said the Boer.

The officer rubbed his eyes and said somewhat sleepily, "A rooinek, Maartens?"

"He is an Englishman, I think, Veldt-cornet," answered the Boer; but no amount of questioning could elicit from Jack his proper name and place of residence. If this were part of Christian Uys's commando, his identity would soon be discovered, and then good-bye to life itself.

"Keep an eye on him, Maartens," said the veldt-cornet, with a yawn; and the officer rolling himself up in his blanket, sank back on the veldt, and was soon wrapped in a profound slumber.

The fire was now burning low—a lucky circumstance for Jack Lovat, or his wounded condition would have been seen, and unwelcome inquiries made.

"Lie down and rest, youngster," said the Boer sentry; and Jack obeyed.

Our hero's mind was now running on horses, but that another chance of escape would present itself seemed impossible.

Dawn would soon break, and he knew that if the other portion of Christian Uys's commando should come up, all would be over, and a Mauser bullet would end his cares and sufferings.

Several of the Boers were awake and glancing at Jack with looks of wonderment. Their curiosity, however, had evidently been appeased by Maartens, and seated round the smouldering embers of the fire, they began to converse in low whispers, and Jack overheard such words as "drift," "kloof," and "schantze"; and when the words "New Zealanders" were pronounced he knew that the patrol were on the look-out for the Auckland Rangers.

The cold was intense, and Jack began to shiver violently. One of the Boers seeing this, kindly handed our hero a blanket and told him to make himself comfortable.

An hour before dawn the whole party were astir, and the grateful aroma of freshly made coffee filled Jack's nostrils.

Additional fires had been lighted, and over these several Boers were busily engaged in grilling strips of biltong.

Jack's appetite for the moment had left him, and he turned away from the roughly cooked beef which was offered him. The odour was nauseating to Jack's hypersensitive olfactory nerves.

He did not, however, refuse the coffee, which imparted a welcome warmth to his chilled frame.

The veldt-cornet was wide enough awake now, and after the hastily prepared meal had been discussed, he turned to Jack, whom he cross-examined very closely.

"You come from this neighbourhood?" queried the veldt-cornet.

Jack shook his head; and the Boer officer went on—

"Have you been serving against us in the field?"

"I am not a soldier," answered Jack. "I am a settler's son. All that we desire is peace; we want nothing more."

The veldt-cornet laughed as he said, "There will soon be peace, boy, when all the rooineks have been kicked into the sea. You are wounded, I see. Where did you receive your wound? In a fight?"

"It is nothing—a mere scratch I managed to get in an accident," replied Jack, assuming a cheerful air.

"Then you will join us, youngster?" queried the Boer leader.

"I would rather be excused," answered Jack. "I want to get to Springbokfontein."

"You will reach there in good time," said the veldt-cornet. "In the interval you might do worse than see a little service under the vierkeleur. What say you? We can give you a mount and a rifle. Maartens, how are we off for horses?"

Maartens shrugged his shoulders as he replied, "We have a couple of led horses, Veldt-cornet, the roan mare, and the young horse."

"Then let him take the roan," observed the officer.

"By the way, youngster," he continued, "have you seen anything of a troop of rooineks—New Zealanders—in the district?"

"I understand that some are in this part of the country," answered Jack.

"Well, if you will go along with us, you shall see them before long," said the veldt-cornet. "We want to catch a fellow named Morton. The commandant will give a thousand pounds for the fellow, dead or alive."

Jack laughed to himself as he thought of the New Zealander's narrow escape, and wondered what the latter was doing, and whether he had made good his escape from the Diamond Valley or not.

"You know Springbokfontein, I suppose?" asked the Boer officer, after a pause.

"I have been there several times," was Jack's reply.

"Is the place strongly guarded?" queried the veldt-cornet, who was a namesake and relative of President Steyn.

"You ask me a question that I cannot answer," replied Jack. "There is certainly a town guard, but whether they are any good or not is more than I can say. However, you had better try your luck against the town."

"That is just what we are going to do, after we get hold of these New Zealanders. You know the Bank at Springbokfontein?" queried Steyn.

"I know very little about banks," answered Jack somewhat brusquely; and then he nearly made an ass of himself by blurting out the fact that his father had been robbed of five hundred pounds intended for deposit in the bank under discussion.

"It is said that a hundred thousand sovereigns are reposing in the Bank," said the veldt-cornet, with a laugh, "mostly belonging to the people who asked us to come to their help and then showed the white feather."

"White flag, did you say?" asked Jack grimly. "I thought only Boers were addicted to that practice."

"Have a care, youngster," said Steyn warningly, as he tapped the butt end of his rifle with a meaning glance in his eyes. "It is the rooineks, not Free Staters or Transvaalers."

Jack felt that metaphorically speaking he was putting his foot in it, and intimated he was only having a joke.

"A delicate subject to joke about, youngster," observed Steyn. "You know the countryside?" he added.

"Not this immediate neighbourhood," replied Jack.

"And what takes you so far from home?" queried the veldt-cornet.

"We settlers hunt sometimes," suggested Jack.

"But not without weapons. Where is your rifle?" demanded Steyn.

"The country is under martial law," replied Jack.

"The rooineks' law," sneered Steyn.

"As you say," observed Jack diplomatically.

"You mean that you have lost or mislaid your rifle?" queried Steyn.

"I had an adventure with lions," said Jack. "I——" Our hero hesitated, and then added, "I will join you."

"Spoken like a man!" cried the veldt-cornet. "Maartens, the roan mare and a Mauser for the youngster, before he changes his mind."

"The mare is quiet, I trust?" asked Jack.

"You shall try her. See, it is nearing daybreak. At sunrise you shall satisfy yourself as to your mount."

The sounds of clattering hoofs arrested the officer's attention, and a Boer presently rode up.

"The veldt-cornet?" inquired the new-comer.

"I am here," said Steyn. "You have ridden over from the commandant, Du Plessis?"

"I have ridden on the spur, Veldt-cornet," answered the Boer. "Du Boisson was stabbed last night by a young rooinek whom we caught yesterday, just as you marched out of camp. The rooinek has escaped, and——"

"He is here," said Steyn, and he looked round for Jack; but the ostrich farmer's son was already on the roan mare's back and scudding like the wind down the donga.

"The devil!" cried Steyn. "No, don't shoot; it might bring a hornet's nest around our ears. He has gone in an opposite direction to that from which we expect the New Zealanders. Maartens, you were too premature in bringing the mare;" and Maartens had the good sense to look abashed.

"He is the rooinek who killed Du Boisson," said Du Plessis. "Van Donnop knows him well. He is the son of an ostrich farmer named Lovat."

"The man from whom the five hundred sovereigns were taken?" exclaimed Steyn excitedly.

"The same, Veldt-cornet," replied the Boer scout.

"And it was at this brat's father's farm where some of our men were repulsed only two nights ago," said Steyn, with growing excitement. "I wish Maartens had shot him as he lay on the veldt."

"I had rather he belonged to us, Veldt-cornet," observed Maartens. "He is a slim youth, and, if his heart had been in the right place, would have been of great service to the cause."

"Yes, maybe, Maartens," growled the officer. "Now that he has got away, he will alarm the whole country."

"Van Donnop says that the New Zealanders will come this way," said Maartens, pointing to the upper end of the donga. "The rooinek must move on his left flank, as the country is very broken and cut up. However, you will see. We shall catch them in a trap, and then march straight for Springbokfontein and Port Nolloth. I am quite right."

"You always had good sense, Maartens; but if we catch this young Lovat, a bullet will be too good for him; a piece of stout rope and a tree—the aasvogel shall do the rest. The men have all breakfasted?"

"All have had coffee and biltong, Veldt-cornet," answered Maartens, who was acting as second in command of the patrol, which as things went, might have been termed a reconnaissance in force.

Let us follow the fortunes of Jack Lovat, the daring boy-fighter of the Kopje Farm.

While the veldt-cornet was talking to Burgher Du Plessis, Maartens brought up the roan mare, and acting on the spur of the moment, Jack, while pretending to examine the horse's head-gear, sprang on its back, and as narrated, sped like the wind to the other end of the donga.

His breath came hard and fast, and every moment he expected being struck by a bullet. He wondered what the sensation would be like if a missile hit him, but luckily he was spared the experience.

No sooner did he reach the entrance to the donga than something seemed to whisper to him, "You must keep to the left, for there lie home and safety."

The mare was a gallant one, and full of mettle, for with long strides she rushed gamely forward, widening the gap between Jack and her late owner.

The ostrich farmer's son never drew rein until a couple of miles distant from the Boer laager, when he eased up, and after glancing round, dismounted—taking care to retain a firm grasp on the reins.

"Thank Heaven, I am free once more," said Jack to himself. "And now for the Kopje Farm!"

Several landmarks seemed familiar to him. One of the kopjes he remembered as being a spot much favoured by baboons, ugly grinning apes that lived in the caves with which the kopje abounded.

The Kopje Farm he knew lay some few miles to the south of the hill, so he moved forward towards a donga which skirted the right base of the kopje.

His attention was arrested by a sight which sent the blood rushing to his heart, causing a choking sensation that almost stifled him.

About a mile distant he discerned a troop of mounted men advancing in his direction.

"They are Boers!" ejaculated Jack aloud. "I've escaped from one fire only to fall into another."

He was in the middle of the donga when he first caught sight of the strangers who were advancing over the open veldt.

Jack watched the progress of the horsemen, who suddenly halted.

Evidently a fresh order had been given, for presently they wheeled to the right and moved on in an oblique direction.

"They are going straight towards Langeman's Nek," thought Jack; but his quick eyes detected something he had not seen before.

"They are our fellows!" cried he,—"the Auckland Rangers. I know them by the feathers in their slouch-hats;" and without more ado he rode forward, and clearing the donga, galloped forward at full speed in the direction of the horsemen.

### CHAPTER VIII
THE AMBUSH

When Jack and his two companions did not return to the Kopje Farm, much speculation was indulged in as to their fate by the men of the Auckland Rangers. It had been the intention of Major Salkeld to saddle up in the afternoon, but the non-appearance of Morton altered his plans, and a couple of hours were spent in reconnoitring by his scouts, but without success.

One of the Kaffirs asserted that he had heard shots fired in the Diamond Valley about noontide, but this statement led to no elucidation of the mystery connected with the disappearance of Trooper Morton and Jack.

Mr. Lovat, too, was uneasy. He knew that his son possessed an adventurous nature, for Jack during his hunting expeditions had been several times absent from home for a couple of days at a time, but it had always been with his father's permission.

Accommodation for the troopers was provided in various parts of the farm buildings, while Major Salkeld partook of Mr. Lovat's hospitality in the farmer's private apartments.

Sentries were posted at various points around the farm, and with anxious hearts the ostrich farmer and his wife retired to rest, but not to sleep. Mr. Lovat's fear was that the three missing ones had fallen into the hands of the Boers.

Dawn at last broke on the veldt. The night had passed without any alarms, and the quietness and solitude seemed oppressive.

Mr. Lovat and the major were early astir, the former directing the "boys" in the serving out of corn to the troopers' horses, while the latter looked after his men.

The little force were able to replenish their bandoliers from the ample stores which Mr. Lovat had in stock, so that each man now carried two hundred rounds of cartridges.

Soon after dawn, the troopers moved off, after taking a hearty farewell of their host and hostess, not forgetting Mary, with whom the Irregulars left many little mementos in the shape of gold coins of the realm, and which they insisted on her accepting—although against her father's wish.

Their route would be by Langeman's Nek, a defile to the west of Rheni Kop, and Major Salkeld had promised his men some fighting before they joined the bulk of the regiment.

The road was very difficult, and progress consequently was slow. Scouts were thrown forward in front and on the flanks, but for a few miles nothing unusual occurred.

The advance guard was suddenly seen to halt and dismount.

Shortly afterwards, one of the scouts signalled, "Halt! remain where you are. We are falling back."

Major Salkeld instantly halted his men, and ordered them to see to the magazines of their rifles.

The four scouts in advance presently came riding in, and the leader at once made his report to the major.

"Sir," began the trooper, "I fancy we shall see some fighting before long. The country in front is admirably suited for an ambush, and a horseman is rapidly approaching. Look, here he comes!"

Round the bend of a kopje, some seven hundred yards away, a horseman was seen galloping at full speed towards them.

The major at once placed his glasses to his eyes and gazed earnestly through them, after which he rode a little ahead.

"He is quite a youngster," exclaimed the major. "Why, it is the son of our worthy friend, the ostrich farmer, up at the Kopje Farm;" and the next moment Jack Lovat pulled up, mounted on a beautiful mare, which was flecked with foam.

"Sir!" gasped Jack, for he was almost breathless, "you are ambushed. Nearly two hundred Boers are waiting in Langeman's Nek for you. Go back at once, sir."

Jack's shirt and jacket were stained with blood, and Major Salkeld with some anxiety asked, "But you are wounded, my boy. What does this mean, and where do you come from?"

"Excuse me, sir," said Jack, "but we must retire into the donga. The Boers will soon be covering me with their rifles. If you had gone much farther, all of you would have been killed!"

The major wheeled round, and followed by Jack Lovat, returned leisurely to where his men, mounted on their horses, were awaiting him.

"Right about!" shouted the officer; "by fours retire to the donga;" and the troopers obeyed.

The retirement was effected in perfect order, without a shot being fired by the unseen enemy. Then the troop was halted, and Jack Lovat told his story in a few simple words.

The major opened his eyes in amazement as Jack narrated his adventures during the previous day and the past night.

"And you say that Morton is shut up in a cave in the Diamond Valley?" asked the officer.

"He was there yesterday afternoon, sir," replied Jack, "and I'm going to him as soon as I can. The Boers bound his ankles with wet hide. He may have been able to get out and crawl a little way, but I'm afraid not."

"And this commando of Boers, where is it?" demanded the major.

"The main body was about half a dozen miles from here last night, and a lot of burghers are holding Langeman's Nek, waiting for you now. I'm awfully hungry. Can you give me anything to eat?'

"Certainly, my lad," cried the major cheerily; and he took from his own haversack some sandwiches Mrs. Lovat had made specially for him, and handed them to Jack, who ate them with great relish.

For a few moments the major was undecided what to do; but after a little deliberation, he ordered his men to dismount. That done, he despatched a couple of scouts to the mouth of the donga.

The donga in which the troopers were now posted was about half a mile in length, and admirably situated for defence, if held by a fairly strong party. In the centre the ground, mostly of a rocky nature, was much broken, affording shelter for twice the number of men now under Major Salkeld's command, and it was towards this part that the officer determined to retreat. Jack's first inquiries naturally were about the inmates of the Kopje Farm, and he felt relieved when the major assured him that everything was right at the old homestead.

"One of the Kaffirs is missing, though," said the officer. "I forget his name. Symonds," turning to an officer, "what is the name of the nigger who went off soon after sunset last night, and had not turned up this morning when we left?"

"Moses, I think it is, sir," answered the trooper.

Jack Lovat stared somewhat rudely at the Irregular and said, "I thought as much! We had him from Van Donnop's. The beggar deserves shooting."

Moses was the only shady character in Mr. Lovat's establishment. Before the outbreak of the war, Moses, a Kaffir of immense strength and stature, had been a most exemplary character; but until news of the small disaster to the British in the armoured-train incident at Kraipan reached the remote district of Orangefontein, Moses on various occasions had asked permission to visit Van Donnop's farm, ostensibly for the purpose of seeing a negress employed by the Dutch farmer, and—Mrs. Lovat possessing as she did a sentimental nature—his requests were always acceded to.

"And so Moses has left the Kopje Farm, sir?" queried Jack. "It looks somewhat fishy. Upon my word, it seems as though Moses had some hand in the disappearance of my father's money."

The New Zealanders reached the broken ground and dismounted, and Major Salkeld awaited the appearance of his scouts, who were now hidden by a bend in the donga.

Presently the 'pip-pop' of Mauser fire was heard in the direction of Langeman's Nek, and the scouts bending low in their saddles, came at a rattling pace towards the place where their comrades were grimly and silently awaiting events.

One of the scouts, Burnand by name, had a ghastly expression on his face, and it was evident that he had been severely wounded, when he dismounted from his horse, as he tottered and fell on the ground.

"A little water, sir, if you please," he gasped, looking at his riding-breeches, which were drenched with blood. "I've been hit. Take my bandolier, for I'm——"

The trooper never finished the sentence, for when a water-bottle was being held to his lips, he gave a sigh, and died. He had been hit by a bullet in the stomach.

"Your report, Fielding, quick," said the major, addressing the other scout.

"The enemy are closing in on the mouth of the donga, sir," said the trooper. "If a dozen men are at once hurried forward, they may be able to check them."

"Now, men," cried the major, "I want no volunteers; there is no time for that. Sergeant Oliphant, pick twenty men quickly. The rest will remain here."

"All right, sir," replied the sergeant, a quiet-looking man of thirty; and in a few seconds the non-commissioned officer, much in the same way as schoolboys pick a team of cricketers, selected twenty New Zealanders, who, headed by Major Salkeld and the sergeant, moved forward at a gallop towards the mouth of the donga overlooking Langeman's Nek.

"No; stay where you are," said the officer in answer to Jack Lovat's appeal. Major Salkeld's command to our hero was so peremptory that Jack was obliged to obey.

"Get your horses into shelter," were the major's last words to a corporal. "Possibly we may have to retire to this spot."

At breakneck speed Major Salkeld and his men hurried to the mouth of the donga. A volley of bullets, which luckily emptied no saddles, was the welcome they received.

On each side of the donga stretched low ranges of kopjes, diminutive in size, but offering good shelter from fire which might be directed from the donga.

The major at once dismounted his men, and four troopers led back the horses to a distance of some two hundred paces, on the instructions of the officer.

The remaining troopers fell prone on the ground, after which they crawled forward, sheltering themselves behind big stones and mimosa scrub.

"We cannot afford to lose a cartridge, men," cried the major. "Every bullet must find its mark, or we are done for."

"All right, sir," muttered more than one man; "we'll see to that;" and with strained vision they glanced along the kopjes, from which little spurts of flame occasionally issued—heralds of the coming storm.

"These beggars know how to fight," muttered the major. "No wonder our men were shot down in such numbers at Magersfontein."

The Boers blazed away at the tiny handful of men belonging to the Rangers, with scarcely any reply on the latter's part. The Irregulars were well up in the art of fire discipline, and did not mean to waste a cartridge. Occasionally a slouch-hat peeped from its hiding-place on a kopje, and the report of a Lee-Enfield testified to the quickness of eyesight possessed by the men from Maoriland.

The second casualty among the New Zealanders happened to a trooper named Jordan, a miner, possessed of an adventurous spirit, who, spotting an excellent target in the shape of a Boer whose head and shoulders were exposed, raised himself on his elbows in order to get a better sight, and as he fired, received a couple of bullets in his brain. Without an exclamation, the unfortunate New Zealander rolled over on his side—a dead man.

The spurts of flame from the kopjes came nearer, until at last a terrible cross fire was poured on the isolated position held by the few Irregulars.

"We can do no good here," said Major Salkeld in a voice loud enough to be heard by all his men; "we must fall back on the others. What say you, Sergeant Oliphant?"

A braver man than the sergeant never put on putties, and he answered, "Quite right, sir; we must get back to the other fellows;" and the order was given by the major to retire beyond the bend, where the horses were being held.

Luckily the long veldt grass concealed their movements, or the New Zealanders would have suffered more heavily than they did. As it was, during the short retirement, three men were hit—one killed outright, and the others dangerously wounded.

"We cannot leave these men here," said Major Salkeld; so the stricken troopers were picked up and carried to where the odd men were standing with the horses. The rifles which the wounded and dead had dropped when they fell were not forgotten.

The Irregulars were now out of the line of the enemy's fire, and no time was lost in retreating to where Jack Lovat and the remainder of the Irregulars were posted.

One of the wounded men succumbed shortly after reaching the place of shelter, so that the morning's fatalities up to the present totalled three out of a very slender force.

The horses, none of which had been hit, were picketed in a little ravine, and three men told off as guard, after which Major Salkeld saw to the defence.

An unpleasant thought flashed through his mind, and the brain message resolved itself into the question, "Are we in a death-trap?"

The sides of the donga were precipitous, and clad here and there with geraniums and heath of various species. Quartz rock of almost snowy whiteness peeped out, forming a striking contrast to the vivid red of the geraniums and the brown mottled surface of the heaths.

"Oliphant," said the major, addressing his sergeant, "do you think it politic for us to retire straight through the donga by the way we came, and retrace our steps to the Kopje Farm?"

A grim look was on the sergeant's face as he replied, "It would be, sir, if we could manage to do it."

"What do you mean, Oliphant?" queried the officer. "There will not be the slightest difficulty in the way, only I don't quite like the idea of falling back. It is against our traditions, you know."

"I thoroughly understand what you mean, sir," answered the sergeant; "but I am very much mistaken if even now both ends of the donga are not closed against us. I believe we are in a death-trap, sir."

"It doesn't say much for our scouting," muttered Major Salkeld; after which he added aloud, "Get the men ready to start, Oliphant. Poor Mason must be left for a time at least."

Two wounded troopers were in a bad plight. One had been shot through the lungs, but still lived, while the other, more fortunate, was suffering from a broken arm.

Jack Lovat when he realised the true state of affairs at once volunteered to remain behind with the trooper who was lying at death's door, but the gallant lad's offer was firmly refused by Major Salkeld.

The latter was in a terrible dilemma. If he and his little force left their present place of shelter, and a section of the Boers had crept round to the other end of the donga, it would mean almost certain death, or at the best surrender, and the men riding in the ranks of the Auckland Rangers had made a solemn vow when they landed in the country never to be taken alive.

The major made up his mind. He would remain; so he set his men to work to intrench themselves, after which he despatched scouts to each end of the donga.

Jack Lovat this time would not be denied, and along with Sergeant Oliphant made his way to the mouth of the donga leading to the Kopje Farm.

Two hundred yards from the entrance they dismounted and picketed their horses. Then on hands and knees they began crawling towards the mouth of the donga.

"I hope you have the safety catch of your rifle on," whispered Oliphant. "We must have no accidents."

"It is all right, Sergeant," replied Jack.

This part of the donga was covered with long veldt grass, nearly a foot high, and although it somewhat impeded their movements, it screened them fairly well from observation.

No signs of Boers could be seen, although Jack and his companion carefully scrutinised the ridges on both sides of the donga.

At length a peculiar noise was heard. It was something between a whistle and a cry. The two scouts fell prone and lay still. Presently Jack whispered, "See, Sergeant, on your right front. The place is swarming with Boers."

Scarcely had he finished speaking when the report of a volley rang through the donga. The bullets whistled harmlessly over the heads of the Colonial and his young friend. Involuntarily Jack turned his head. The two horses lately ridden by himself and his companion were lying stretched on the ground.

For a few minutes both lay still, not daring to move a limb, until a fierce fusillade broke out at the other end of the donga. This decided the sergeant, and he whispered, "We must get back, boy. We are hemmed in, but I think it best to fight it out together."

And so thought Jack. Although only a few hundred yards from their friends, it took the pair nearly half an hour to regain the intrenchment. They crawled on their hands, knees, and stomachs, wriggling like serpents in the long grass, and although both had several near escapes from being hit, they did not receive a scratch.

Things looked very black at the intrenchment. Three men were already lying in a last long sleep, while more than a dozen had been wounded.

The little band of New Zealanders was suffering from a heavy frontal fire, to which at any time might be added a terrible flank one.

Several horses had been killed, and the moans of the wounded men and their cries for water were heartrending. Major Salkeld, with a white face streaked with blood from a wound in the head, looked as grim and determined as ever.

His men had not wasted a cartridge, for they knew that the exhaustion of their bandoliers meant death or surrender.

One young trooper, Coke by name, who through love of adventure and fighting had thrown up a splendid appointment in the Bank of Australasia, received a mortal wound in the stomach as he slightly rose to twist round his bandolier.

With a blanched face, he turned to Major Salkeld and gasped, "I'm done for, sir! Take these;" and with great difficulty and increased agony he wrenched off his bandolier and handed it to the officer.

"One drop of water, before I die!" muttered the poor lad; but water there was none within fifty yards, and the open must be crossed before that could be obtained.

"I'm going for some water," said Jack Lovat, laying down his rifle, and heedless of the officer's remonstrance, Jack coolly collected half a dozen water-bottles, and leaving the shelter of the intrenchment, ran forward in search of the precious fluid. Thoughts of danger possibly entered his mind, but the desire to alleviate the sufferings of his wounded comrades was paramount.

The peculiar 'phit-phit' of Mauser bullets whisked round his head, but he ran steadily on, untouched by the nickel messengers of death. Then the fire suddenly ceased, and Jack filled the water-bottles and returned to the intrenchment.

"My lad," cried Major Salkeld, "you deserve a hundred Victoria Crosses. I will see, if we get safely out of this, that you shall not go unrewarded."

A white flag fluttered in the breeze not three hundred yards away, and a couple of Boers holding the signal of truce, advanced.

"Shall I go and meet them, sir?" asked Oliphant.

"Yes, do," replied Major Salkeld; "see what they want. But no surrender. That is our motto. They must not see our weakness."

The sergeant stepped forward and met the Boers half-way. He had heard plenty of tales concerning white-flag treachery, but he knew that if anything happened to him, his fall would be speedily avenged, for a dozen deadly levelled rifles in the intrenchment would speak with fatal effect.

"We demand your surrender," said one of the Boers to Oliphant, a heavily-bearded man, with a by no means unpleasant cast of countenance. "There has been enough bloodshed, and you have proved yourselves brave men. You have no chance, and will surely all be shot down. Veldt-cornet Steyn wishes me to express his admiration of your fighting qualities. Are you the officer in charge of this detachment?"

"I am only a subordinate," answered Oliphant. "I cannot make or even discuss terms."

"Then return to your commanding officer, and tell him that if his force does not surrender within ten minutes, firing will be resumed, and then God help you."

Oliphant bowed, and returned to the intrenchment.

Major Salkeld on hearing the sergeant's narration of the brief interview with the Boers, exclaimed, "We do not surrender. Not an Aucklander yet has been captured by the enemy. We will fight to a finish."

A few minutes later, the Boers again opened fire upon the brave New Zealanders, now sadly diminished in number.

### CHAPTER IX
THE RESCUE

We must now return to Trooper Morton, whom we left bound in a cave in Diamond Valley. His wound was a painful one, and having lost a quantity of blood, he naturally felt somewhat weak.

The Boers had taken good care to secure his ankles. The hide with which they were bound was tied and knotted while wet, and, quickly drying, caused great pain by its contraction.

He raised himself into a sitting posture and began fumbling with the hide rope. He might as well have tried to snap bands of wrought iron. He was hungry as well, so he turned to the strip of biltong which the Boers had thrown to him when they departed.

"I suppose they take me for a cannibal," he muttered, looking at the dried ox-flesh. "However, I'll see what it is made of. I daresay I shall need all the strength I can muster before I reach my troop—if ever I do. I really don't want to make another acquaintance, while alone, with these beggars."

The biltong proved palatable, and Morton, possessing a healthy digestion and not being fastidious, made a satisfying meal of the unaccustomed food.

His next action was to crawl out of the cave, and with some difficulty he made his way to a little rivulet that ran along the base of one of the sides of the donga. In the bed of the stream were pebbles of various sizes, and after assuaging his thirst, he began to search for a sharp-edged stone.

For some minutes he was unsuccessful, but at last perseverance brought its reward, and he discovered a triangular-shaped piece of quartz. With this he began sawing at the rope, but he found the hide tougher than he had bargained for.

He hacked at his fetters until darkness set in, and by that time had only succeeded in severing a single strand. Two more must be cut before he could regain his freedom.

He resolved to snatch a few hours' sleep, so he crawled to a depression, a couple of hundred yards distant from the cave, and lay down. The night was bitterly cold, and the Southern Cross gleamed brightly above him. At last he fell asleep, and when he awoke streaks of yellow light were shooting upwards into the sky from the eastern horizon.

He again set to work on the hide rope, and before the sun had reached the point midway between the zenith and horizon was a free man. His ankles were sore and swollen, and taking off his stockings, he bathed his feet in the clear water of the stream, after which he felt better.

Then his mind turned to the pebble hidden within the recesses of his breast pocket. He took it out and examined it with interest and more than ordinary care.

"A few more like this," he muttered, "and I shall be able to open the finest shop in Auckland."

His knowledge of precious stones, and more especially diamonds, told him that he had secured a magnificent specimen of crystallised carbon. He retraced his steps to the place where he had found the diamond, passing on his way the dead body of poor Pete, and although his only implement was the three-edged piece of quartz, he was fortunate enough to find four additional stones, not so large as his first discovery, but still of great value.

Sounds of distant rifle-firing fell upon his ears, desultory at first, then in volleys. Like Jack Lovat, Morton had a pair of keen eyes and ears, and was well able to find his way about, so he soon located the scene of fighting.

He knew that the firing proceeded from an opposite direction to that of the Kopje Farm, and came to the conclusion that warfare was going on in that particular quarter. He would make the best of his way to Mr. Lovat's farmstead, where, if his comrades had departed, he could obtain a mount, and possibly a pair of boots. After that, he would try to rejoin his troop.

Quick locomotion was out of the question, for his feet were already blistered and bleeding, from contact with camel-thorns and pieces of jagged rock.

He was making for the summit of the kopje overlooking the farm, when a couple of Kaffirs suddenly appeared, and came running towards him. The natives halted, but Morton beckoned to them, and after some display of hesitancy, they came up.

The trooper was instantly recognised by the Kaffirs. They proved to be two of Mr. Lovat's "boys," Simon and Daniel.

Simon, who was a little fellow of singularly grotesque appearance, called out, "Baas, don't go to de Kopje Farm. It is in de hands ob bad Boers. Dey hab killed all de oder 'boys' 'cept Dan'l an' myself."

"What!" exclaimed Morton, "have our men left the farm?"

"Dey went dis mornin', baas," answered Simon. "Dere be hundreds ob de Boers. Dan'l ah' me got away through de bush, or we would hab been murdered as well. If only Baas Jack had been at home, dis would not hab happened; but de old baas no show fight, and de Boers are now up at de Kopje, eatin' an' drinkin' eberyding in the place."

"Hold hard, my dear fellow! Not quite so fast," said Morton; "you talk too quickly. I want you to tell me what has happened."

"Well, baas," replied the Kaffir, "Moses an' Pete and Baas Jack hab been missin' sin' yesterday, an' the missis and little missis hab been crying all de night an' day too. I know your face, baas. I saw you yesterday before Baas Jack an' Pete went away, an' den Moses sneaked away; an' oh, baas, dings are in a bad way at de Kopje Farm. De Boers hab taken Bessie, an' Juno, an' Jess, an'——"

"Look here, Simon Peter, or whatever your name is, you are spinning too long a yarn for me. Just answer me one or two questions. First, when did the Boers arrive at Mr. Lovat's?"

With the peculiarity habitual to Kaffirs, Simon began counting his fingers in a rapid manner, after which he replied, "Dey came two hours after de captain an' his men saddled up an' went away."

"How many Boers are at the Kopje Farm?" queried Morton. "Try and tell me exactly."

Again the native's fingers began the counting process.

"Well?" demanded Morton.

"I should say one hundred an' half dat number, all men wid some led horses. Dey killed all de 'boys' 'cept Pete, Moses, Dan'l, an' myself. It was horrible; but de baas would not fight, an' we got away. But where are your boots, baas? Your feet dey are bleedin', too, an' you look bad. Wounded?"

"Yes, a trifle, 'boy'—not much," replied Morton. "Have you any arms with you—knives or anything of that kind?"

Daniel, who was a forbidding-looking Kaffir considerably over six feet in height, pulled out a revolver from his trousers' pocket, and handing it to the New Zealander, said, "Dis belongs to Baas Jack, but I spec he is dead."

Morton took the weapon in his hand and examined it carefully. The pistol was branded with the mark of the British Small Arms Company, and was new and of heavy calibre.

"Any cartridges?" queried Morton.

"Plenty ob dem, baas," answered Daniel, producing a box which the trooper found contained fifty rounds. The Kaffir took the cartridges from a shooting coat that had evidently belonged to Mr. Lovat.

"You keep dat, baas," said Daniel, "if you will let us go wid you. We dare not go back to de Kopje Farm. I will now make you a pair ob boots dat will be all right."

Before Morton could say a word, the Kaffir plucked a number of large leaves from a shrub of the plantain species, and within a very short time, with the aid of a little string, had manufactured a pair of presentable sandals—if somewhat unshapely, at least comfortable.

"Now, baas," said Daniel, after he had fitted on the foot-gear, "do de boots suit? Dey will not last long, but better dan nothin'."

The New Zealander burst into a loud laugh, despite the seriousness of his position, and assured the Kaffir that he was delighted with the boots.

"Will you 'boys' go with me to the Kopje Farm?" asked he, as he rose to his feet.

The eyes of both Kaffirs rolled in their sockets, showing an unusual proportion of white, and Simon, the loquacious one, said with a splutter, "No, baas, a thousand times, no. Dan'l an' me likes a good fight, but a sjambokking first, and shootin' de next minute, don't suit dese two boys at all."

The strangely assorted trio, after Morton had rested a few minutes, set off in the direction of Orangefontein; Daniel, who knew the country well, leading the way, while the trooper and Simon followed in the rear.

Again Morton tackled his Kaffir companion about the commando of Boers who had so unexpectedly arrived at the Kopje Farm soon after the departure of the New Zealanders.

"Do you mean to say there was not the slightest attempt to show fight when the Boers arrived, Moses?"

"Dat is not my name, baas," replied the Kaffir, with some heat. "My name Simon. Moses no good at all—always up at Van Donnop's over de veldt; worse dan a Boer."

"Never mind what your name is, my good fellow," observed the trooper. "The Boers could not come from the Kopje?"

"No, baas; no road dat way. Dere be three paths up to de farm—one straight from de valley, an' de oders on what you call de right an' left flanks. De Boers came up on de left flank, while your boys went away by de right. We first saw de Boers when dey were a long way off."

"But you said that the 'boys' with the exception of yourselves had been killed. What makes you think that, Simon?"

"I dink nothin' at all about it, baas; I am sure." Here the Kaffir's eyes dilated widely. "From our hiding-place in de bush, Dan'l an' me saw one ob de 'boys' run into de ostrich kraal. A Boer ran after him an' shot him down. Den several oder shots were fired, and we knows what dat means. Den we see de missis and de little missie wiping dere eyes wid aprons. Dis is a bad mornin' for us, baas."

"All right, 'boys,'" said Morton; "you go along with me. Have you any knives?"

Daniel produced an ugly-looking bowie knife from a sheath which he had concealed inside his somewhat scanty shirt, and held it up for the white man's inspection.

"That will do," said the New Zealander. "And now heigho! for Orangefontein and my comrades of the Auckland Rangers!"

"Baas, can you tell me where young Baas Jack is?" asked Daniel.

"He is a prisoner in the hands of the Boers, my lad," answered Morton; "but I trust that before long we shall come across him. I think I——"

The New Zealander halted, for the sound of heavy rifle-fire could again be heard proceeding from some place a few miles distant in the right front.

"Fighting is going on," muttered Morton. "Hang my ill-luck! I am always out of the show,"—a statement which was by no means a correct one, seeing that Major Salkeld's favourite scout had been in more skirmishes probably than any other Irregular in the army.

Morton directed the two Kaffirs to look in the direction whence the reports came; but the keen vision of Simon and Daniel could detect no flashes of flame, and in these days of smokeless powder no haze hangs over scenes of fight.

The country was wild in the extreme—granite-peaked kopjes interlaced with innumerable little dongas met the vision, gaze where you would. The kopjes, whose sides and bases were clad with geraniums and heath of various kinds, formed a glorious mosaic against the steel-tinted blue of the African sky. Everything in Nature was sublime, and stood out in relief against the awful passions of men, who were striving might and main to imbrue their hands in their fellow-creatures' blood. War has its romance, its temporary glitter, but also its awful, black shadows in the shape of untold physical and mental suffering, endured by those who are compelled to serve under its sombre flag.

The firing continued, and Trooper Morton, irresistibly impelled by the sheer love of fighting innate within him, veered out of the track which Simon vehemently declared led to Orangefontein.

The New Zealander's temporary foot-gear had given way, and the two Kaffirs, while the Irregular rested, went in search of fresh leaves, taken from a bush of the plantain species, in order to patch up the old or manufacture a new pair of shoes.

The Kaffirs as a race are endowed with an extraordinary range and quickness of vision, and before Simon and Daniel had completed their self-imposed task, the latter's keen eye noted something on the horizon away to the right, which for the moment disturbed his peace of mind.

"Aasvogel, baas; dead people somewhere near!" said the unsophisticated Kaffir, as he advanced towards Morton, who was examining his still swollen ankles.

The vulture of South Africa, like the steed mentioned in Holy Writ, can smell the battle from afar, and little did Morton imagine that the hideous birds of prey were even now hovering above the bodies of his late comrades, proved friends in many a fight.

Farther away to the right still edged Morton. His adventurous spirit was yearning to be in the middle of the fray, but his Kaffir companions were not imbued with the same enthusiasm.

Presently the trio struck the Orangefontein road leading from Land Drift, and Morton called a halt. The biltong had given out, and the Kaffirs were empty-handed. Daniel, however, was equal to the emergency. His keen eyes detected some white flowers growing on the veldt, and his bowie knife was out in an instant.

"Somethin' good to eat, baas," he said, as he knelt down and began digging the ground round the flower roots. Presently he unearthed what appeared to be ground nuts. These he handed to Morton, saying, "You try dese, baas; dey are not bad eatin', an' you neber get tired after you hab made a meal ob dem."

The trooper responded to Daniel's invitation, and although the roots possessed a stronger pungent odour than he liked, he assuaged his hunger with them, and felt decidedly better after his meal.

Simon and Daniel squatted themselves down a few paces distant, for a Kaffir never partakes of food with a white man, and Morton threw himself on the veldt, on which at this part heath grew very plentifully, and stretched himself out.

Like the long continued rolling of thunder, rifle-firing had been heard by the three refugees, but all at once there was a fierce crackle, followed by a few intermittent shots—then silence.

"Baas!" cried Simon, running towards Morton, "some horsemen are comin' dis way. Dey be five." The Kaffir held up his hand, and continued, "Dey belong to you, baas. Kaffirs can see a long way."

Morton's heart seemed to leap into his mouth as he listened to Simon. The news seemed too good to be true.

"I can see nothing, Simon," said the trooper, shading his eyes and looking down the valley, in the direction pointed out by the Kaffir.

"Dere, baas, dere!" exclaimed Simon excitedly. "Dey be comin' straight for us;" and at last the New Zealander was able to distinguish five moving figures, advancing at a rapid trot towards them.

Morton was not exactly a religious man, but he felt devoutly thankful when five minutes later he found himself shaking hands with men belonging to his regiment whom he had not seen for a week.

They were scouts belonging to the B Troop of the Rangers. Rumours of a disaster to Major Salkeld's troop had reached headquarters, and instead of proceeding to Springbokfontein, Colonel Malcolmson, the commandant of the Rangers, with two Maxim guns and four hundred men, was even now in search of the missing troop.

Luckily the scouts had with them two led horses, so that Morton was enabled to obtain a mount. Simon and Daniel declined the offer made to them by Morton and backed up by the scouts. They would take their chance on the veldt. Morton knew that the blacks could fight well when in laager, but they had very little stomach for warfare when waged in the open field.

Before parting with the Kaffirs, the horsemen gave the two "boys" a supply of biscuit, after which they left them.

The six New Zealanders proceeded towards the spot where the firing had been heard. Everything was now quiet, and as they proceeded Morton detailed in a few words his experiences since Major Salkeld had left the main body.

"We are encamped in a valley about two miles from here," said the sergeant of the scouts, in answer to an interrogation by Morton. "Everything is in light order, and we got word an hour ago that Major Salkeld is in a tight corner, so we have been sent round here to find out what we can, and report at once. I never in all my life saw such country for manoeuvring in. A fight may be taking place not half a mile away, and you can see nothing. After what you have told us, I'm afraid the major has not only lost the number of his mess, but also that of his troop. Hullo! here comes a fellow. What does it mean?"

A few seconds later, a New Zealander, whose horse was foam-flecked and panting with exertion, rode up.

"Retire at once!" cried the new-comer. "Ah, Morton! is it really you? Glad to see you, I'm sure."

The speaker was a young lieutenant temporarily attached to the New Zealanders from the South African Light Horse.

"We have located the enemy, Sergeant," said the officer. "Now, right about!" and omitting the red tape, "trot! canter!" the seven Britishers rode hard for the Colonials' camp.

Morton, handicapped though he was with his plantain-leaf slipper—for by this time he had only one left—was not the last man to reach the camp of the New Zealanders.

The baggage and Maxims were left behind under a strong guard, and Morton, who had no difficulty in securing a pair of boots many sizes too large for him, which of course was a necessity, and a Lee-Enfield with its accompanying complement in a fully loaded bandolier, found himself once more on the warpath.

The scouts, who undiscovered, had located the Boers, led the way, and the force, nearly three hundred strong, approached the valley where Major Salkeld and his little band of heroes for hours had fought against an infuriated and stubborn foe.

An ominous silence reigned, but ahead on the several kopjes, isolated bodies of horsemen, few in number, could be seen retreating westward.

"Is this to be a repetition of the Gordon case?" asked Colonel Malcolmson of Captain Bryan, a young Irish soldier of fortune, who had served in Ladysmith during the early stages of the war. "Are we always to be too late? I pray that we may not be so now. Major Salkeld and his men are worth a king's ransom."

"I hope the present tense will hold good, sir," said the Irishman grimly. "The enemy have evacuated their positions, which looks bad."

Things did look dark, for when the colonel and his men arrived at the mouth of the donga where Major Salkeld had been trapped, thousands of empty cartridge-cases were found strewing the ground. The cases took the form of five-chambered Mauser clips.

In the middle of the donga, the relieving force found the remnant of Major Salkeld's troop, and tears came into the eyes of the bronzed warriors as they gazed upon the inanimate forms of the gallant lads from Maoriland, stretched behind the little breastworks formed by nature.

Some of the men still clutched their rifles, fingers on triggers, with foreheads wrinkled and savage-set lips. These lay on their stomachs, and had been hit while in the act of taking aim.

Others had rolled over in their last dying agony, and in their hands were clutched pieces of veldt grass and gravel.

Were there any survivors? Yes! A boyish form struggled to its feet and saluted the colonel, as he stood gazing in awe and wonderment at the little field of carnage. The form belonged to Jack Lovat, who merely said, "I'm pleased you have come, sir. We have done the best we could."

With the exception of the solitary wound he had received on the previous day, Jack Lovat amidst the continuous whistling storms of bullets, had not received a scratch. Major Salkeld was not killed, but had received a severe wound in the leg which floored him. Sergeant Oliphant had succumbed to a bullet through the brain not long after the commencement of the fight.

Nineteen troopers had been slain outright, four wounded mortally, while six more had been incapacitated. Jack Lovat was the only fighting survivor of the so-called little affair at Langeman's Drift.

The wounds of the living were at once attended to, and the dead reverently buried, Colonel Malcolmson officiating as chaplain and chief mourner.

In a consultation with Major Salkeld, the colonel said, "And you think, Major, that this commando will concentrate at the Kopje Farm?"

"I have no doubt about it, sir. I believe that even now the farm may be occupied by rebels," answered the major. "You have a splendid guide in young Lovut, the son of the owner. He is a young hero, and deserves a thousand Victoria Crosses. Take him with you, sir, and attack at once."

"Your advice is good, Major," said Colonel Malcolmson. "I am so sorry you can't come with us."

That was a physical impossibility, and no one felt more chagrined than the gallant Major Salkeld.

In our next chapter we shall describe the attack on Kopje Farm, and its results.

### CHAPTER X
THE FARM RECAPTURED

When the Boers advanced on the Kopje Farm, Mr. Lovat deemed the policy of non-resistance to be the wisest course to pursue. Against the overwhelming numbers of the Boers there would not have been the slightest chance of a successful defence, although Pat O'Neill counselled holding the place at all costs. Perhaps it was as well that Jack Lovat was an absentee, as he certainly would have backed up Pat's suggestion.

But Mr. Lovat, weakened in mind and body by his wound, yielded to his wife's entreaties to allow the Boers to take what they pleased, hoping that by so doing he would get rid of them the sooner.

The section of Christian Uys's commando, now split into several parts, which had unceremoniously thrust itself upon the master of the Kopje Farm, was under the command of a veldt-farmer named Maestral, whose hatred against the British was of a very pronounced type.

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?"

The Boer thus spoken to dismounted from his panting steed, and exclaimed, "We have finished off a lot of the rooineks, but"—this was added in a whisper—"a big force of them is advancing on this place. The commandant has ordered the other section of the commando to scatter, and afterwards concentrate near Doom Spruit. Commandant Uys has told us to acquaint you with the news, and also to ask you not to hold the farm, as the Rangers will attempt to retake it, even if it costs them many men."

Field-cornet Maestral was a man endowed with a large bump of cautiousness, and after listening to the scout's statement, he with some difficulty assembled his section of the commando and addressed a few words to them. His quick eye noticed that the potent spirit imbibed by nearly all his burghers had taken effect and that their gait was unsteady.

The Boer officer told the burghers the news he had just received from the scout Emil Behrens, who stood by his side, and informed them that it was his intention to evacuate the farm. Loud cries of dissent arose, and as Maestral did not possess the personality of a De Wet, he naturally felt, and was, powerless in the hands of his burghers.

Meanwhile a strange action was being performed by Pat O'Neill. The Dutch settler who built the Kopje Farm had during its erection constructed several large cellars, the ramifications of which extended under many of the rooms as well as the ostrich kraal.

The element of fear had no place in Pat's mental constitution, and while the field-cornet was addressing his men, the Irishman disappeared. Through a secret trap-door in a corner of the storeroom floor, he descended into the enormous cellar. From his pocket he took out a small lantern in which was a piece of tallow candle. He carefully lighted the candle, and placed the lantern within a niche in the wall.

Three large barrels stood in a corner of the cellar, and the barrel lids were removed by Pat without any difficulty, for the simple reason that the worthy Irishman had seen to a little necessary "prising" process soon after Major Salkeld's men had left in the morning.

With a large scoop, Pat began to bale out a black substance on the floor. The substance was gunpowder! Quite coolly the Rorke's Drift man laid a train leading from the barrels to the foot of the ladder, and with grim satisfaction viewed his work in the dim light.

"Bedad!" he muttered, "this will give the spalpeens a shock worse than King James av ancient memory might av got." Then taking out a long piece of gutta-percha fuse, he inserted one end in the train of powder, and ascended the ladder steps carrying the other end of the fuse with him. This end he fixed between the interstice formed by the floor and the trap-door.

Pat was just in time to see a little of the fun going on between the field-cornet and his burghers, and chuckled gleefully to himself.

Several gray-haired doppers were backing up their leader's proposal that the farm should be evacuated, but the fumes of the whisky were seething in the noddles of the majority of the Boers, and their only longing was to get more of the potent spirit, regardless of consequences.

If Commandant Uys had been present, things might have happened differently; but discipline had altogether fled, and the only answer to the field-cornet's command was the demolition of several additional bottles of the fiery fluid. After this, the burghers got completely out of hand.

Pat O'Neill made his way to the dining-room, where he found his master, Mrs. Lovat, and Mary.

"This is a bad day for us all, sorr," said Pat respectfully. "These heathens are clearing out all we have on the place. They are drinkin' harder now, sorr, than anything I've ever seen in the dear ould counthry across the sea. I've got the ould barker wid me, sorr, an' if they insult Pat O'Neill, they'll have to look out. You are not well, sorr; remain here until I return, for you can do no good among the murtherin' rascals. Oh, yes, sorr, I will take due care av myself."

Pat, like the majority of his versatile countrymen, was eloquent in speech, and he added, "The first man, sorr, who dares to lay his dirthy fingers on you or the missis or Miss Mary, I'll——"

Pat's sentence was left unfinished, for the sharp crackle from rifles broke out seemingly in all directions, followed by loud yells and shouts in the Dutch tongue.

"Begorra!" ejaculated honest Pat, "it's our bhoys, sorr. Maybe Master Jack, the darlint av my eye, is wid them. No, sorr, you must not move from here. You are not well enough. The saints be praised! afther all, Pat O'Neill is about to see a good fight once more before he shuffles off this mortal coil, as the poet says."

Saying this, Pat walked to the door of the dining-room, took out the key, and after closing the door, locked it, making temporary prisoners of Mr. Lovat and his little family. The ostrich farmer was a captive in his own house.

Wild confusion now reigned in the farmyard. Bullets were whistling all around, and a dozen Boers lay stretched on the ground, dead or mortally wounded.

In a wild stampede, the Boers climbed over the walls, only to receive a heavy fire which dropped several more burghers. Several of the Boers were hopelessly intoxicated, and made no show of resistance.

"The Boers climbed over the walls."

"Hands up, you scoundrels!" yelled a stentorian voice. "At them, boys! Down with the rascals! Hurrah!"

The speaker was Trooper Morton, who carrying his rifle in his left hand, dashed forward in pursuit of the flying burghers. Close behind him was Jack Lovat, full of courage, and several troopers of the corps of Rangers, all eager to engage the enemy in a hand-to-hand conflict.

The Boers showed little fight, and the excellent disposition of his men by Colonel Malcolmson, which was largely due to information given by Jack Lovat, led to the surrender of several burghers, without a single casualty on the British side.

Among the captured was Piet Van Donnop, who along with Emil Behrens had been sent by Christian Uys to warn Field-cornet Maestral.

Pat O'Neill was almost beside himself with delight at again meeting his young master. Jack's first salutation was, "Where are my father, mother, and Mary, Pat? I trust they are all right?"

"I saw to that, Master Jack," answered Pat. "I locked them for safety in the dining-room;" and the Irishman conducted Jack to the apartment.

The meeting between our hero and his parents was an affecting one, for the latter believed that their son was dead.

The captured Boers were at once disarmed by Colonel Malcolmson's troopers, and the Free Staters placed under a strong guard.

Jack had an interview with Piet Donnop. The young Dutchman told our hero that much of Commandant Uys's information had been derived from Moses, who had met his just deserts. The renegade Kaffir had been shot, with several others in the service of the Boers, during the attack on Major Salkeld's men in the donga.

After the dead had been buried, Morton and Jack took a stroll through the storeroom, and Pat O'Neill came up to them.

Respectfully saluting, the Irishman said, "Sorr, you see that," pointing to a thin black tube protruding from the trap-door. "Do you know what that manes?"

The two friends glanced at the fuse, and Pat seeing that the New Zealander was smoking, added, "Plase put out your pipe, sorr. It is rather dangerous."

Wondering greatly what the ex-soldier meant, Morton obeyed; and Pat raising the trap-door, said, "If things had gone wrong at the Kopje Farm, I would have blown the place to smithereens, an' meself into the bargain. By the Rock av Cashel, not one av the spalpeens would have escaped! Now, most likely, we shall have peace."

"You're a good fellow, Pat," observed Jack, with a smile. "I think, however, the sooner you get things squared up, the better it will be for all of us."

"I know what ye mane, Masther Jack. I'll put the stuff all right;" and shouldering a spade, the Irishman began to ladle the deadly-looking powder into the barrel.

"That is better," said Jack, as after having finished his task, Pat replaced the trap-door.

A few minutes later, Colonel Malcolmson held a hurried council of war in Mrs. Lovat's drawing-room, and the gallant colonel invited the intrepid Morton and our friend Jack to be present and take part in the proceedings.

It was determined to go in pursuit of the scattered remnants of Christian Uys's commando; but before this was done, Piet Van Donnop was brought before the colonel for examination.

Piet had a somewhat crestfallen air, as he surveyed the group of Britishers.

"You are a burgher of the Free State, I presume?" interrogated the colonel.

Van Donnop glanced at Jack Lovat, and a red glow suffused his bronzed features.

"I am waiting for your reply, burgher," said Colonel Malcolmson brusquely. "I trust that my Dutch is good enough for you to understand?"

"I am a Cape Colonist, sir," answered Piet sheepishly.

"A Cape rebel, you mean," observed the colonel sternly. "How comes it that you are caught in the act of bearing arms against His Majesty's Government?"

"I am fighting for my own side, sir," answered Piet boldly. "I took up arms because I was asked, and thought I was doing what was right."

"And you know what may be your fate—yes, your possible or rather probable fate?" was the next interrogation.

"I do not," replied Van Donnop, "and I care very little."

"I scarcely wonder at that," said the colonel. "You certainly seem to have been undergoing a bad time of it lately. Have you been here before? I mean before the war commenced."

"I know him well, sir," put in Jack Lovat, anticipating Piet's reply. "He was kind to me when I was captured by the Boers. You will be lenient with him, sir?"

Invited by Colonel Malcolmson to say what he knew about the prisoner, Jack told the officers of the friendship that had existed between the two families before hostilities began, and begged the colonel to be lenient with Piet. He urged that the young Dutchman, like many other settlers in Cape Colony, had been led astray by Boer emissaries.

Before being dismissed by the council, Piet felt that his life would be safe. He knew that by the rules of civilised warfare, he, as a rebel, had no claim to clemency, and noted with gratitude Jack Lovat's appeal on his behalf.

The Boer prisoners had been temporarily imprisoned in the largest ostrich kraal, and a guard of twenty troopers with loaded rifles placed over them. Several of the burghers were sleeping off the effects of their late carouse, so that the task of guarding them was a comparatively easy one.

Pat O'Neill now assumed full authority as foreman of the Kopje Farm, and with more swagger than was perhaps absolutely necessary, chaffed the Boers about their inability to hold a little ostrich farm. Nor were his eyes and hands idle.

"The dirthy beggars!" muttered Pat. "They're fond av loot, an' why should not Pat O'Neill, late av the ould 24th, not follow suit?" And to Pat's credit be it said, he proved a competent detective.

Towards evening, Colonel Malcolmson set off in pursuit of Commandant Uys's scattered commando, and to his great satisfaction, our friend Morton, now a full-blown sergeant—a rank conferred by Colonel Malcolmson on the field—was left in command of the guard, entrusted with the defence of the Kopje Farm, and the due supervision of the Boer prisoners recently captured.

### CHAPTER XI
DIAMONDS GALORE

The troopers left in charge of the Kopje Farm, after the rest of the Rangers departed, had many reasons why they should congratulate themselves on their admirable temporary quarters. The New Zealanders for months had lived "hard," as it is termed in soldier language. Now they were, as a trooper expressed it, "in clover."

Most of the men serving in the ranks of the Rangers were gentlemen by birth, and many had had a university education. Sheer love of adventure had drawn them from the Antipodes to South Africa, and certainly during the whole of the unfortunate campaign no corps serving under the Union Jack did more yeoman service than the lads from Maoriland.

True, they had their failings. Never expecting quarter themselves, in the hot rush of fight, their warlike instincts caused a few, but very few, regrettable incidents. The conflict over, they were the most generous of opponents, treating the wounded and captured Boers with the utmost kindness.

Peace reigned at the Kopje Farm. All outward traces of the late conflict had been removed before sunset, and Mrs. Lovat had so far recovered her spirits that she ventured to walk across to the kraal where the captives were confined.

To the wounded Boers, Mary Lovat was the model of kindness. With her deft fingers she applied linen bandages to their wounds, brought them beef-tea made by her own hands, and was most assiduous and tender in her attentions.

War is an awful thing. The colours that depict it must always be of a sombre, if not ebon hue, and Mary Lovat that night earned the gratitude, often audibly expressed, of the burghers, smitten, though not mortally, by the fire from the rifles of the Auckland Rangers.

Pat O'Neill, war-seasoned old veteran that he was, acted as Mary's trusted adjutant. He was here, there, and everywhere; at one moment giving a wounded Boer a drink of lemon water, at another listening to the whisperings of a delirious burgher uttered in strange tongue, about his late home on the Modder River.

All that was possible under the circumstances was done. Colonel Malcolmson, with generous forethought and self-denial, left his assistant surgeon at the Kopje Farm. His principal medico, Dr. Rennie, had elected to remain behind with the few surviving wounded at Langeman's Nek.

As the sun was setting, Jack Lovat and his friend Sergeant Morton took a stroll round the farm, and their conversation turned to the subject uppermost in the New Zealander's mind—diamonds.

"The place you call Diamond Valley is teeming with stones, I am positive," said Morton decisively. "I'm going to explore the place to-morrow, if nothing turns up to prevent me."

"With not the same results as before, I hope," observed Jack, with a laugh.

"I shall take my chance," said Morton, smiling as he spoke. "I'm convinced from what I saw that a valuable diamondiferous reef is in existence in the valley. I would wager my bottom sovereign—only unfortunately I haven't got one to stake—to next to nothing that a fortune awaits the man who exploits the place. It is worth a try, at any rate, and I'm going to make the venture in the morning, and chance another capture."

"We'll go together, then, Sergeant," said Jack; "and if luck comes in our way, we'll share and share alike. Most of the valley belongs to my father, and if anything turns up, I know he will be awfully glad to get back to the old country."

"Nothing to prevent it, I can assure you, my lad," observed Morton. "Who knows what is lying hid in this wonderful valley of yours? Perhaps it may contain more diamonds than are in the Kimberley district."

Sergeant Morton was optimistic. He had already in his possession stones which he estimated bore a face value of two thousand pounds.

"We'll go and have a chat now with father and mother," said Jack; and the two friends made an adjournment to the room where Mr. and Mrs. Lovat were seated, discussing the strange drama that had been enacted at the Kopje Farm during the past few days.

The night passed without alarms. Sergeant Morton and Jack never slept, but spent their time in visiting the sentries judiciously placed around the farm by the former. During the night a couple of wounded Boers succumbed to their injuries, and were buried in the little paddock behind the house, now a miniature cemetery.

"Bedad, sorr," said Pat O'Neill to Jack after the burial, "this brings back ould times—when I was twenty years younger than I am to-day. Do you know, sorr, that I thought my blood was gettin' a bit thin, but by the powers, I'm spoilin' for another fight. Maybe, though, it won't come off. By the way, sorr, did the masther get back those five hundred sovereigns the dirthy curs robbed him of at Jagger's Farm?"

"I'm afraid father won't see them again, Pat," replied Jack. "The poor beggars are welcome to keep them. They have had a stiffish time of it lately. I hardly think they will make an attack on the Kopje Farm again. What is it, Pat? Why are you fumbling in your waistcoat?"

"I've got a bit av loot, Masther Jack," answered Pat. "No, sorr, not your father's sovereigns;" and the Irishman drew out a dirty chamois-leather bag.

Dipping his hand into the bag, Pat withdrew ten Kruger sovereigns and showed them to Jack.

"Been looting, I see, Pat," said Jack laughingly.

"Well, sorr, they took the masther's gold," observed Pat, with a grin, "an' thinks I, as the ould sayin' goes, fair exchange is no robbery. Av course, sorr, I've been on the look-out for a bit av loot. You will take the coins, Masther Jack?"

"No, no, my dear fellow; keep them yourself, if your conscience will allow you."

"I'm not a thafe, sorr," said Pat. "I only thought that all was fair in love an' war—although, the saints be praised, Pat O'Neill has never been such a fool as to fall in love wid any woman yet."

"I meant no harm, Pat," observed Jack. "You get more fiery as you get older."

"All right, Masther Jack; I'll stick to the money until your father gets back his five hundred pounds. But I got something else from the burgher I took these from."

"And pray what is that?" inquired Jack.

"Only a few glass stones, sorr," replied the Irishman; and he stretched out his palm, on which reposed a dozen or more little "glass stones."

"I think they're diamonds, sorr," said Pat, "but I'm no hand at knowing jewellery."

Sergeant Morton was passing on his way to the ostrich kraal, and Jack called to him.

"Hullo, Lovat! What is it?" inquired the Colonial. "Anything the matter?"

"Kindly look at these glass stones, as Pat calls them," said Jack; and Morton glanced at the pebbles, after which he looked significantly at our hero.

"You might point out the burgher from whom you got these, Pat," said Jack. "I should very much like to see the fellow who is fond of carrying pieces of glass about with him."

"Then they are only glass, sorr?" inquired the Irishman, a shade of disappointment creeping over his face.

"I can hardly say they are glass, at the present time, Pat," replied Jack. "However, I want to see the burgher from whom you took the crystals."

"All right, sorr," observed Pat, with alacrity. "Come wid me, an' I'll show you the burgher. He's a rough-looking customer, and big enough to eat the three av us up."

Saying this, Pat led the way to the ostrich kraal. The imprisoned Boers looked very dejected, and anything but the fierce fighters recently serving in Christian Uys's commando.

Pat walked up straight to a Free Stater of immense size and stature. The Boer possessed a most forbidding countenance, and scowled as Pat approached.

"This is the man, sorr, I took the coins an' crystals from," said Pat.

"Then hand the coins back to him. They belong to him," observed Jack.

Pat at once handed over the Kruger sovereigns to the big burgher, whose face instantly assumed a suaver expression.

"We British try to be just," said Jack in Dutch. "I am sorry that my father's servant took the money from you. Do you mind telling me where you obtained these?" Saying this, Jack showed the crystals to the burgher.

"I picked them up in a sluit not far from here. I thought they would make a necklace for my daughter."

"And you know what they are?" inquired Jack.

"Crystals," answered the Boer. "They are very plentiful in my country, but have not the same yellow colour as these."

"Will you sell them to me?" asked Jack.

"No, I will not take anything," answered the burgher; "I will give them to you. You have restored my money, and I am content."

Jack Lovat was honest, and as he turned away with Sergeant Morton, said to the Boer, "I will see you again."

Jack and his New Zealand friend returned to the house, and for an hour were shut up in the former's room.

Morton examined the crystals very carefully, while Jack awaited his verdict with considerable anxiety. At last the New Zealander spoke.

"They are diamonds, Jack, sure enough, but not of the same quality as the stones I possess, or the one Kaffir Pete gave you. You see these have a yellow tint distributed unevenly throughout their substance. If the tint had been deeper and of a uniform nature throughout, the pebbles would represent a value of three thousand pounds at least. The majority of them are fractured, too. I should hand them back to the Boer. After you have done that, we'll make tracks for Diamond Valley. I don't suppose we shall meet with the same adventure as we did before. The place seems quiet enough now."

Jack acted on Sergeant Morton's suggestion, and offered to restore the stones to the Boer from whom they were taken; but the latter, to our hero's surprise, refused to accept them, saying, "Keep them; I can get more when I return to my own country. I thank you all the same for your kindness."

An hour later, after a consultation with his father and mother, Jack stood under the verandah of the farmhouse, waiting for Sergeant Morton, who was making an inspection of the sentries and guards. It was a beautiful day, and the sky was without a cloud. Brilliant sunshine flooded the scene, and down in the valley the heat hung quiveringly above the veldt.

Only a few hours had passed since a scene of bloodshed and violence was being enacted at the Kopje Farm. Now all is peaceful and still, while the silence is almost oppressive.

Leisurely Sergeant Morton sauntered up to where Jack was standing, and in his rear stalked Mr. Lovat's faithful henchman, Pat.

"All is serene, Jack," said the New Zealander, as he came up. "I don't think we shall see or hear anything of our fellows until evening. So come along. I've told Pat to be on the alert, and to bring us word instantly should any change in the situation take place."

"You understand, Pat," said Jack to the Irishman, who was standing at attention, "if any one turns up, you will at once come over the kopje to us. Here are my glasses, and be sure you keep a sharp look-out."

"All right, sorr," answered Pat; "I understand. But mind you, don't go and get captured again, sorr."

Jack laughed, and linking his arm within the New Zealander's, the two friends began climbing the kopje in the direction of Diamond Valley.

Both were well armed, Jack having a Lee-Enfield rifle, while Morton carried a Mauser, with the use of which he was well acquainted. The Mauser formed part of the spoil taken in the previous day's fight.

"If we can find poor Pete's body, we'll bury him decently," said Jack. "He was a good and faithful servant of my father's."

"I'm afraid there will scarcely be any necessity for that," observed Morton. "The aasvogels, I am afraid, will have been at work."

The summit of the kopje was soon reached, and presently Jack and his companion were overlooking the immense depression known as the Diamond Valley.

Jack led the way straight to where the Kaffir Pete had been killed, and to his great satisfaction found that the poor black's body had been left untouched by the loathsome birds of prey, although several of them could be seen hovering in the air at some distance away.

Our hero insisted upon Pete having a decent temporary interment, and a hollow was soon found, in which the "boy" was placed, and covered with stones and earth.

"Now, Jack, my boy, we must make tracks for the diamonds," said Morton, after the burying operations were completed. "Hullo!" he added. "Look out, Jack!"

The New Zealander, one of the coolest Irregulars serving in the campaign, was speaking in an excited tone of voice.

Jack Lovat turned his head in surprise. Not more than a yard from him, a huge black snake, with uplifted head and ominous-looking poison fangs, was preparing to hurl itself on the young settler.

In a moment Jack took in the situation, and sprang aside. A rifle report rang out, and the loathsome reptile fell at Jack's feet, an inert mass of dead matter. A bullet from Sergeant Morton's rifle had shattered the snake's head.

"A near squeak that, Jack," said Morton, with a laugh. "They tell me that a bite from one of these snakes means almost instant death."

"I'm jolly glad, Sergeant, you warned me, and better still, hit the brute. I'm awfully obliged to you."

"Don't mention it, Jack. And now for that little blue reef!" responded the sergeant. "I trust we shall be able to find it."

"I think I can locate it," said Jack; "it is somewhere down here."

"Right you are, Jack," observed Morton. "The side of the donga rose almost perpendicularly, I remember. A band of blue clay runs horizontally along the gneiss. Why, here we are. This is the very place where the nigger said he found the pebble you showed me. I've come prepared this time, Jack;" and the sergeant drew a formidable-looking bill-hook from his belt.

"I've gone one better than that," said Jack, with a smile, as he took a small pickaxe from his pocket and placed it in a shaft which he had brought from the farm.

"The very thing, Jack!" cried Morton. "Why, you're a trump!"

"Living on the veldt makes you sharp," said Jack drily.

Morton took the pickaxe and began hewing at the band of blue clay.

"No, leave it alone, Jack," said the sergeant, as Jack stooped to pick up the clay. "I may hit you, and that would be a very bad ending to what I consider a promising career."

"All right, Sergeant," responded Jack cheerfully. "Then I'll stand by and see you do the hard work, while I share the profits."

For a few moments, Sergeant Morton applied the pickaxe vigorously, then a ringing sound followed the blows.

"A selvage pocket!" muttered the New Zealander, as he scooped out the remnants of clay. "Hard luck, Jack, the worst of bad luck. The pocket has given out. It can't be helped. And now let us examine our spoil."

With trembling fingers, it must be confessed, Sergeant Morton proceeded to examine the blue clay he had dislodged, while Jack with a big clasp knife followed suit.

An exclamation burst from the New Zealander.

"Jack!" he cried excitedly, "we are both made men!" and he showed to our hero a substance rather larger than a walnut.

"This is a klip, Jack; one of the finest South Africa has yet produced. I must rest a while; I'm too excited to do any more;" and the cool-headed New Zealander, the man who had been in a hundred fights without showing the slightest trace of fear, sat down, and with great difficulty restrained himself from shedding tears.

Poverty and its attendant struggles would be a thing of the past, and, in his Antipodean home, the war-worn Ranger would be able to share in the luxuries and happiness which wealth, if judiciously used, can bestow on its fortunate recipients.

Several additional diamonds of large size were found by Morton and Jack in the blue clay dislodged from the selvage pocket. These were carefully gathered, and the two friends were on the point of returning to the Kopje Farm, when they saw a figure silhouetted against the skyline.

"I fancy it is Pat," said Jack. "I wonder what news he brings. I trust Colonel Malcolmson has captured the commando."

"I hope such may be the case," observed the New Zealander. "However, let us move forward as rapidly as we can, and ascertain what is the matter."

The new-comer proved to be Pat, and the worthy Irishman seemed to be somewhat flurried.

"I've come as ye tould me, sorr," said Pat, as the two friends came up.

"Any news?" inquired Jack.

"The best av news, sorr," answered Pat. "It would take more than half a dozen commandos to take the Kopje Farm now."

"What do you mean, Pat? I don't quite understand."

"I mane that a rigimint av English Lancers is now at the farmstead, and some av the Rangers are expected soon. There has been a big fight close to Springbokfontein, and the Boers have been badly licked by our men, and the burgher they call Uys has been captured wid all his baggage. You are going home now, sorr, I suppose?"

"That is so, Pat," answered Jack; and we may rest assured that the distance between the summit of the kopje and the farm was covered in record time.

Pat's information proved correct; for three squadrons of British Lancers were temporarily resting at Mr. Lovat's ostrich farm.

Jack was greatly impressed by the appearance of the Lancers. Most of the soldiers were young men, but all looked fit and hardy. Theirs had been a rough life for many months, trekking up and down the colony in search of rebel bands.

Major Lambton, who commanded the Lancers, proved an affable gentleman, and received Jack with the greatest courtesy. Sergeant Morton half expected a wigging for being absent from his post, but escaped the infliction.

A couple of despatch riders had ridden over from Springbokfontein, conveying the news of the Boers' defeat, and also a command that the prisoners captured at the Kopje Farm should be hurried down to the town at the earliest moment. Half a dozen troopers were to be left at the farm, if Mr. Lovat so desired.

Major Lambton decided to leave a half troop of his Lancers with the ostrich farmer, while with the remainder of his command he intended to join Colonel Malcolmson.

Jack obtained permission from his father, although it was not readily accorded, to proceed with Sergeant Morton to Springbokfontein. Our hero felt sorry for Piet Van Donnop and his comrades, who appeared very dejected. The journey, too, had to be performed on foot over a rough country.

The wounded Boers were left in the ostrich kraal, until arrangements for them to be conveyed to Springbokfontein could be completed.

It was late in the afternoon when Jack and Morton arrived at the town. A big fight had taken place in the early morning between the Rangers and the now concentrated commando of the redoubtable Christian Uys.

It had proved a stubborn encounter; but the Rangers, under the brilliant leadership of Colonel Malcolmson, forced the fighting, and after much slaughter on both sides, the Boers ran up the white flag, and the action ceased.

Christian Uys, Veldt-cornet Steyn, and several officers were taken prisoners, and lodged in the Town Hall at Springbokfontein. It was evident that the Boers had sympathisers in the town, for many scowling looks were bestowed on the Lancers and the Rangers, escorting the prisoners captured at the Kopje Farm.

To Jack's great delight, he found that the British wounded had arrived from Langeman's Nek, and although Major Salkeld was severely wounded, the doctor had great hopes of his complete recovery.

Jack Lovat had an object in visiting Springbokfontein, and soon after his arrival he sought and obtained an interview with Colonel Malcolmson.

Jack was accompanied by Sergeant Morton, and in an open though respectful manner he made known his errand to the colonel.

"I have come to make inquiries about my father's money, sir," began Jack. "He was robbed of five hundred pounds a few days ago, by some Boers belonging to the commando you have captured."

"Oh, yes, I see, my boy; you are Mr. Lovat's son," said the colonel. "I must congratulate you on the splendid spirit you have shown during this very trying time. You have a perfect right to make every inquiry. I know, of course, about the robbery, for such it was, I am shortly having an interview with Commandant Uys and his veldt-cornet. If you wish, you can go with me, and you as well, Sergeant Morton. I believe the back of the rebellion is broken in this part of the colony."

Jack thanked the colonel for his courtesy, and said that he should be pleased if he could have an opportunity of speaking to the commandant. A few minutes later, Jack stood before the redoubtable Boer leader.

Uys was confined, along with several of his officers, in a large room in the Town Hall. Several of the Boer officers with him had been wounded, but there was a haughty look on all their faces. Although captured, their spirits were not broken.

The commandant opened his eyes in astonishment as he beheld Jack, who returned the gaze with interest.

"I have come to ask about my father's money, Commandant," said Jack.

"What money?" demanded Uys.

"The money of which he was robbed by your brigands," answered Jack boldly in Dutch.

"You are the young rooinek who escaped from my laager?" inquired the commandant.

"I am," replied Jack stolidly.

"After killing one of my best burghers," said the Boer leader in a stern tone of voice.

"You say so," said Jack. "It is a time of war, and many men are being killed daily. I have come to ask about my father's money, of which he was robbed at Jagger's Farm. He was not, and is not even now, at war with your race."

"I have not your father's money," observed Uys. "If I had, I would restore it to you. I cannot always restrain my burghers."

"But you are responsible for their actions, Commandant," said Jack boldly. "Your men also without provocation attacked my father's farm, but our Kaffirs and I repelled their assault."

"One question, youngster. I have given you an honest answer to a straight question. Who was your companion when we captured you in the donga?" asked Uys.

"He is here to answer for himself, Commandant. His name is Morton;" and Jack stepped to one side, saying as he did so, "Allow me, Commandant, to introduce Sergeant Morton of the Auckland Rangers to you."

The Boer leader frowned, and muttered, "I thought so! He is a lucky fellow."

Finding that he could derive no satisfaction from the answers given to his inquiries respecting his father's money, Jack bowed to the commandant and retired.

A couple of hours later, our hero found himself at the Kopje Farm, relating to his parents the adventures of the day, and when he flung himself on his bed, he felt that peace once more had come to dwell around his father's farmstead.

* * * * * *

Two years have passed away since the incidents recorded in this little book happened.

Under the silken folds of the Union Jack, Dutch and British alike enjoy the same liberties and privileges; but it is not of the land under the brilliant Southern Cross that we now write.

The purple heather is blooming on the moors and hillsides of bonnie Scotland, and in the glens shots are heard. Grouse-shooting has commenced in the Highlands, and a party of four are stalking through the heather, on sport intent.

One is a young lady, just blossoming into glorious womanhood. She is a keen sportswoman, and can handle a gun as well as the best of them. Her name is Miss Lovat, and she is the sister of the Laird of Airdtullish. Her face is darker than those of the majority of her fair countrywomen, but veldt breezes and scorching sunshine have the knack of tanning faces belonging to those of European birth.

Her companion is a gentleman of soldierly appearance, with a decided limp in his gait. The hair shading his temples is tinged with gray, although he is not yet forty. The quiet, soldierly man is our friend Major Salkeld, whose gallant defence against big odds in the donga over against Diamond Valley is recorded in the annals of the Auckland Rangers.

Since the grouse-shooting began, he has been Miss Lovat's devoted companion.

Let us glance at the remaining couple. Both are men, broad-shouldered and clean-flanked. We have met them before; for the younger man is our old friend Jack Lovat, and his companion Charlie Morton, head partner in the big diamond-broking firm of Morton & Company, Hatton Garden.

Jack's father is dead, and lies in the little cemetery at Orangefontein. The blow received from the clubbed rifle at Jagger's Farm inflicted a more severe wound than was at first imagined, and he gradually sickened and died.

Mrs. Lovat is still in the land of the living, but remains in delicate health. She is lovingly watched over by Mary and Jack, who are doing their best to smooth the dark passage leading to the life beyond.

There is another character who acts the rôle of butler at Airdtullish Castle whom we must present to our readers. He is our honest friend Pat O'Neill, formerly the faithful henchman of Mr. Lovat, and now of his son. His tongue is as voluble as ever, and nothing delights him more than to recount the deeds of the young laird of Airdtullish to the servants at the Castle.

Morton and Jack are engaged in conversation.

"I often think about those five hundred sovereigns, Jack, which the Boers sneaked from your father. You never saw them again, I suppose?"

Jack laughed as he replied, "Well, perhaps I never did rest my optics upon the identical coins; but Colonel Malcolmson saw that my father had their value in horses, before he took Maestral's commando to Springbokfontein. My father certainly lost nothing by the bargain. It was rather fortunate in one sense that the Boers robbed him."

"What do you mean?" inquired the diamond merchant.

"Why, you would never have seen the Diamond Valley and Airdtullish. Our paternal home would never have been mine. I deeply grieve, however, for my father."

The pair relapsed into silence, and stood for a few moments gazing at the purple-clad mountains in the west. Here we must leave them, and say "Au revoir!" to the quartette, and to our boy readers who have followed the fortunes of the inmates of the Kopje Farm.

THE END

WILLIAM COLLINS, SONS, AND CO. LTD., LONDON AND GLASGOW