The sun went down,—­went out with a click, some one declared,—­and, as no twilight interposed between daylight and darkness in the country which Big Stone Hole ornamented, Herr Gustav lit his two paraffin-lamps.  Neither boasted more than a one-inch wick, and, as their glasses were extremely smoky, the illumination was not brilliant; but it sufficed to show the flushed, angry faces of a couple of men standing in the centre of the room, with all the others clustered round, watching eagerly.  One was the Scholar.  The other was a burly giant, whose missing left little finger caused him to be nicknamed the Cripple.  About what they had originally fallen out was not clear to any one, to themselves least of all.  As the case stood when the second lamp was lit, Scholar had called Cripple a something-or-other liar, and Cripple, who was not inventive, had retorted by stigmatising Scholar as another.  Further recriminations followed, and their pistols were drawn; but as the audience had a strong objection to indiscriminate shooting, by which it was not likely to benefit, the belligerents were seized.  No one was unsportsmanlike enough to wish to stop the fight, and Jockey Bill, giving voice to the general wish of the meeting, proposed that the gents be fixed up agin’ a couple o’ posts outside, where they might let daylight into each other without lead-poisoning casual spectators.

The motion was acted on, and after rectifying a slight omission on the Cripple’s part—­he had forgotten to put caps on the nipples of his revolver—­the pair of them were seated upon upturned barrels some ten yards apart, each with a lamp at his feet, and told to begin when they saw fit to do so.  The swarthy, bearded diggers grouped themselves on either side, and the cat, emerging from his retreat, scrambled on to the shoulder of one of them, fully as curious as the rest to “see the shootin’.”  It was a weird sight,—­dust, scorched grass, empty tins, rude hovels, piles of debris, African moonlight,—­yet, except, perhaps, in the eyes of the newest comers, there was nothing strange in it.  The others were too wrapped up in what was going to take place to see anything quaint in their every-day surroundings.  There was no theatre in the camp.  The little impromptu drama riveted all attention.

But before the duel commenced, a galloping horse, which had approached over the grassy veldt unnoticed during the excitement, drew up with a crash between the two combatants, and its rider, raising his hand to command attention, cried: 

“Boys, there’s a white woman comin’!”

“A white woman!” was chorused in various tones of disbelief.  “What, here?  White woman comin’ here, Dan?”

And then some one inquired if she was a Boer.

“Boer—­no,” replied Dan; “English—­English as I am; leastways Englisher, bein’ Amurrican-born myself.  Overtook her et Hottentot Drift.  Thort I’d spur on an’ tell yer.  We’d do wi’ a clean-up, some on us.”