“I must take the baby,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Oh, no.  I will not trust her to you.”

“Hilda, I insist.”

“And I insist, too.  It is my place to take her.”

“But can you ride so?” I asked, anxiously.

She began to pedal.  “Oh, dear, yes.  It is quite, quite easy.  I shall get there all right—­if the Matabele don’t burst upon us.”

Tired as I was with my long day’s work, I jumped into my saddle.  I saw I should only lose time if I disputed about the baby.  My little horse seemed to understand that something grave had occurred; for, weary as she must have been, she set out with a will once more over that great red level.  Hilda pedalled bravely by my side.  The road was bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it.  I could have ridden faster than she went, for the baby weighted her.  Still, we rode for dear life.  It was a grim experience.

All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds of black smoke which went up from burning farms and plundered homesteads.  The smoke did not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in long smouldering masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days in England.  The sun was nearing the horizon; his slant red rays lighted up the red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral glow of crimson.  After those red pools of blood, this universal burst of redness appalled one.  It seemed as though all nature had conspired in one unholy league with the Matabele.  We rode on without a word.  The red sky grew redder.

“They may have sacked Salisbury!” I exclaimed at last, looking out towards the brand-new town.

“I doubt it,” Hilda answered.  Her very doubt reassured me.

We began to mount a long slope.  Hilda pedalled with difficulty.  Not a sound was heard save the light fall of my pony’s feet on the soft new road, and the shrill cry of the cicalas.  Then, suddenly, we started.  What was that noise in our rear?  Once, twice, it rang out.  The loud ping of a rifle!

Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten mounted Matabele!  Stalwart warriors they were—­half naked, and riding stolen horses.  They were coming our way!  They had seen us!  They were pursuing us!

“Put on all speed!” I cried, in my agony.  “Hilda, can you manage it?” She pedalled with a will.  But, as we mounted the slope, I saw they were gaining upon us.  A few hundred yards were all our start.  They had the descent of the opposite hill as yet in their favour.

One man, astride on a better horse than the rest, galloped on in front and came within range of us.  He had a rifle in his hand, he pointed it twice, and covered us.  But he did not shoot.  Hilda gave a cry of relief.  “Don’t you see?” she exclaimed.  “It is Oom Jan Willem’s rifle!  That was their last cartridge.  They have no more ammunition.”

I saw she was probably right; for Klaas was out of cartridges, and was waiting for my new stock to arrive from England.  If that were correct, they must get near enough to attack us with assegais.  They are more dangerous so.  I remembered what an old Boer had said to me at Buluwayo:  “The Zulu with his assegai is an enemy to be feared; with a gun, he is a bungler.”