Hammond indeed would probably have waked in a moment to a sense of something wrong, but, as it happened, his attention was suddenly averted by the sight of a man on horseback tearing full-tilt towards the camp.

"What the--"

"Who the--" They both stood up as the horse came clattering into the clearing, and its rider gasping and haggard flung himself down. He was one of de Rivas' assistants out at the Green Carnation Mine—​a young Scotchman called Dent, well known to them both.

"The natives are `up.' They’ve murdered everyone in our district except de Rivas and his wife," he burst forth. "You fellows had better get your horses and scoot for Mazoe before--."

"Steady, Dent," said Hammond in a voice like cold steel. At the first mention of trouble, he had thrown his eye around and in a flash heard and seen the danger signals about him—​his servants' faces, the timbre of the song in the kraal, the sudden dead silence which, with the horseman’s coming had fallen on camp and kraal, and--the rustle of feet creeping up behind the mine-head shanties!

"Pull yourself together. My boys are observing you. Get your revolver from your hut, Girder, and all the ammunition you can lay hands on, but keep them out of sight." (He had his own revolver on him—​too wise a citizen of Africa ever to be without it.) "Sit down, my dear fellow," he now added heartily to Dent, and called for fresh coffee, sitting down himself too, but with his face towards the mine-head. Girder coming back casually from his hut resumed his chair. Speaking in an ordinary voice, smoking, and pouring out coffee, Hammond questioned the Scotchman and elicited facts.

The natives had set to work at four o’clock that morning, and systematically visiting every farm, hut, and tent within the district had butchered the surprised and defenceless occupants. Everyone at the Green Carnation taken unawares had been knobkerried or assegaied to death—​except de Rivas and his wife who got warning in time to barricade themselves in their ranch. Dent had been with them and the two men had managed to drive the demons off for a time, but it was certain that they would return. In the circumstances, de Rivas had ordered Dent to try and get away by means of an old mine working that came right up close to the back verandah of the house and bring help to them, for Mrs de Rivas was a sick woman and could not travel any distance except in comfort, and well protected.

"They can’t last out long," finished Dent dismally. "Half their ammunition is gone—​Mrs de Rivas is in hysterics most of the time—​if I don’t get help they’ll be done for in a few hours—​I must push on to Mazoe and--"

His sentence was broken off by the smart snap of a revolver. Hammond was firing across Girder’s shoulder, not once but many times.

Snap—​phit! Snap—​pht! Snap—​pht! And the grim eyes of the man behind the revolver snapped and flashed too, as he picked off one after another of those who led the advancing horde. In less time than it takes to write it, five of the leaders were groaning in the dust, and the murderous band behind had fallen back dumbfounded, staring like fascinated rabbits at the man who now advanced on them still covering them with that gleaming deadly revolver and his ice-cold deadly glance. At last, he flung them a few brief words in their own tongue.

"Get down to your work in the mine. Anyone who loiters will be shot-- like these things here."

They gazed at the "things" for a silent moment, then cringing before the white man like the dogs they were, they dropped assegais and knobkerries in the dust and retreated sullenly, step by step, to the mine mouth. Girder close behind Hammond, opened the little gate leading to the enclosure round the shaft and hustled half a dozen boys into the power-house to set the cage going. Then, one by one, with downcast looks and modest mien the boys filed into the cage and were lowered in little companies down the mine. Hammond stood by silent, dominating, the sunshine glinting on his revolver barrel, Boston, casual and indifferent, lounging beside him. The two other men, unobliged even to draw their guns, contented themselves with speeding up an occasional loiterer by means of a brisk application of the boot. In the end, every "boy" of three hundred was at the bottom of the shaft, except those in the power-house. Hammond approached them.

"You too—​get in," he remarked briefly, and they got in, humble and sleek, with air deprecative of giving so much trouble. Dent and Girder took possession of the power-house and worked the cage, for as is well known, two white men can do the work of six natives any day in the week. Afterwards they cut the steel ropes that held the cage and it fell crashing to the bottom of the shaft.

"That’s all right," said Hammond at last. "They’ve plenty of water, and a couple of days with empty stomachs will take the cheek out of them. At the end of that time, if all goes well, we’ll be here to let 'em up again—​if not, so much the worse for them."

"The blessed tinkers!" was all that Girder permitted himself to remark.

"Now you fellows," said Hammond briskly, "take your horses and beat it for Mazoe, hell-for-leather. Get a party together—​half a dozen guns and make for the Green Carnation. I shall go on ahead and help de Rivas hold out."

"I’m coming with you," said Girder carelessly. Hammond looked at him coldly.

"You will kindly do as I ask you, Bill. If you meet trouble between here and Mazoe, as you probably will, and one of you is potted, there is still a chance of the other getting in to give the alarm."

Girder merely smiled. Hammond knew that obstinate smile, and he also knew there was no time to lose.

"Don’t be a fool, Bill," he said brusquely. "We are not in this for glory, or fun, or friendship. Just remember there’s a woman in the matter, will you?--a sick woman. What you two fellows have got to do-- or one or other of you—​is to get together a big enough party to convey her in a cart to Mazoe. If you are delayed you will probably find when you reach us that we have left the ranch and taken to the bush. The house won’t be safe once the ammunition has given out—​and I know the country all round there like the palm of my hand. There are plenty of places we can lie doggo in until help comes. But you must get help, and get it quick. Take the fresh horses, you’ve farther to go than I. I’ll take Dent’s. Go on now, Bill. Don’t be pig-headed—​and take charge of Boston will you? I don’t want him with me. Where is the beggar?"

No one knew. A moment before he had been lounging idly against the power-house, his tongue lolloping from his mouth, his eye expressing boredom; a moment later he simply was not. It is hard to say what instinct had bidden him make himself scarce in a manner as swift and unobtrusive as possible, and turn into a motionless, sand-coloured ant-heap about fifty yards from the road down which anyone leaving camp must pass. No one had time to look for him and no one would have found him in any case. Hammond let loose a bad word, gave Girder’s hand a parting grip, and skimmed out of camp on Dent’s horse.

Within a quarter of a mile of the Green Carnation, he dismounted, and, leaving the horse in the bush, advanced under cover and with great caution towards the ranch. It was then that the rough rocky ground and thorns under foot brought him the realisation that he was still wearing the pair of silk slippers made and sent him by his sister for a Christmas present.

It was a little dell-like place—​not more than ten feet by six, hollowed out by the heavy streams that in bad weather came rushing down the slopes of the kopje above it, darkened by the thick bush all round, full of small sharp stones and thorns, and red ants that stung like wasps, with not a single smooth tree trunk or flat rock to lean against. Still, it was a hiding-place; and to three people it had been for as many days, a haven and a home. Three people—​to say nothing of the dog!

It was indeed Boston who lay in one of those triangular positions which only a dog can find reposeful, his head on a stone, his tongue lolling languorously from his mouth, one eye closed, the other cocked on his master. For Hammond seated uneasefully upon a small rock, his arms round his knees, his empty pipe in his mouth, was plainly busy on an intricate problem, and Boston too was interested in the solution of that problem.

Close beside them, touching feet with Hammond and the dog, de Rivas half-lay, half-leaned in the cramped space, painfully shifting his wounded leg every few minutes. Between his lips was a thick white mimosa thorn which he bit on when he shifted, as a wounded soldier might bite on a bullet to keep in his trouble. Mrs de Rivas lay sleeping on the men’s folded coats.