Fate would let no harm befall him; but, in the very moment, when on another part of the ridge his men were waving their hats in victory, three Boers sprang up before him, ragged and grim and old, but with the fire of fanaticism and race-hatred in their eyes.  One of them he accounted for, another he wounded, but the wounded voortrekker—­a giant of near seven feet clubbed his rifle, and drove at him.  Rudyard shot at close quarters again, but his pistol missed fire.

Just as the rifle of his giant foe swung above him, Byng realized that the third Boer was levelling a rifle directly at his breast.  His eyes involuntarily closed as though to draw the curtain of life itself, but, as he did so, he heard a cry—­the wild, hoarse cry of a voice he knew so well.

“Baas!  Baas!” it called.

Then two shots came simultaneously, and the clubbed rifle brought him to the ground.

“Baas!  Baas!”

The voice followed him, as he passed into unconsciousness.

Barry Whalen had seen Rudyard’s danger, but had been unable to do anything.  His hands were more than full, his life in danger; but in the instant that he had secured his own safety, he heard the cry of “Baas!  Baas!” Then he saw the levelled rifle fall from the hands of the Boer who had aimed at Byng, and its owner collapse in a heap.  As Rudyard fell beneath the clubbed rifle he heard the cry, “Baas!  Baas!” again, and saw an unkempt figure darting among the rocks.  His own pistol brought down the old Boer who had felled Byng, and then he realized who it was had cried out, “Baas!”

The last time he had heard that voice was in Park Lane, when Byng, with sjambok, drove a half-caste valet into the street.

It was the voice of Krool.  And Krool was now bending over Rudyard’s body, raising his head and still murmuring, “Baas—­Baas!”

Krool’s rifle had saved Rudyard from death by killing one of his own fellow-fighters.  Much as Barry Whalen loathed the man, this act showed that Krool’s love for the master who had sjamboked him was stronger than death.

Barry, himself bleeding from slight wounds, stooped over his unconscious friend with a great anxiety.

“No, it is nothing,” Krool said, with his hand on Rudyard’s breast.  “The left arm, it is hurt, the head not get all the blow.  Alamachtig, it is good!  The Baas—­it is right with the Baas.”

Barry Whalen sighed with relief.  He set about to restore Rudyard, as Krool prepared a bandage for the broken head.

Down in the valley the artillery was at work.  Lyddite and shrapnel and machine-guns were playing upon the top of the ridge above them, and the infantry—­Humphrey’s and Blagdon’s men—­were hurrying up the slope which Byng’s pioneers had cleared, and now held.  From this position the enemy could be driven from their main position on the summit, because they could be swept now by artillery fire from a point as high as their own.