He lived still, but remained unconscious, and she did not relax her vigil.  As she watched and waited the words of the young surgeon kept ringing in her ears, a monotonous discord, “Ninety-nine Adelphi Terrace—­first floor!” Behind it all was the music of the song she had sung at Rudyard Byng’s house the evening of the day Adrian Fellowes had died—­“More was lost at Mohacksfield.”

The stupefaction that comes with tragedy crept over her.  As the victim of an earthquake sits down amid vast ruins, where the dead lie unnumbered, speechless, and heedless, so she sat and watched the face of the man beside her, and was not conscious that the fire of the armies was slackening, that bullets no longer spattered the veld or struck the gun where she sat; that the battle had been carried over the hills.

In time help would come, so she must wait.  At least she had kept Stafford alive.  So far her journey through Hades had been justified.  He would have died had it not been for the water and brandy she had forced between his lips, for the shade in which he lay beneath the gun.  In the end they would come and gather the dead and wounded.  When the battle was over they would come, or, maybe, before it was over.

But through how many hours had there been the sickening monotony of artillery and rifle-fire, the bruit of angry metal, in which the roar of angrier men was no more than a discord in the guttural harmony.  Her senses became almost deadened under the strain.  Her cheeks grew thinner, her eyes took on a fixed look.  She seemed like one in a dream.  She was only conscious in an isolated kind of way.  Louder than all the noises of the clanging day was the beating of her heart.  Her very body seemed to throb, the pulses in her temples were like hammers hurting her brain.

At last she was roused by the sound of horses’ hoofs.

So the service-corps were coming at last to take up the wounded and bury the dead.  There were so many dead, so few wounded!

The galloping came nearer and nearer.  It was now as loud as thunder almost.  It stopped short.  She gave a sigh of relief.  Her vigil was ended.  Stafford was still alive.  There was yet a chance for him to know that friends were with him at the last, and also what had happened at Brinkwort’s Farm after he had left yesterday.

She leaned out to see her rescuers.  A cry broke from her.  Here was one man frantically hitching a pair of artillery-horses to the gun and swearing fiercely in the Taal as he did so.

The last time she had seen that khaki hat, long, threadbare frock-coat, huge Hessian boots and red neckcloth was at Brinkwort’s Farm.  The last time she had seen that malevolent face was when its owner was marched away from Brinkwort’s Farm yesterday.

It was Krool.

An instant later she had dragged Stafford out from beneath the gun, for it was clear that the madman intended to ride off with it.