That took but a second, however.  Next instant, awaking to the altered circumstances, we were after them at full speed; accompanying them on their way back to their kraals in the uplands with a running fire as a farewell attention.

As we broke laager in pursuit of them, by the uncertain starlight we saw a sight which made us boil with indignation.  A mounted man turned and fled before them.  He seemed their leader, unseen till then.  He was dressed like a European—­tall, thin, unbending, in a greyish-white suit.  He rode a good horse, and sat it well; his air was commanding, even as he turned and fled in the general rout from that lost battle.

I seized Colebrook’s arm, almost speechless with anger.  “The white man!” I cried.  “The traitor!”

He did not answer a word, but with a set face of white rage loosed his horse from where it was tethered among the waggons.  At the same moment, I loosed mine.  So did Doolittle.  Quick as thought, but silently, we led them out all three where the laager was broken.  I clutched my mare’s mane, and sprang to the stirrup to pursue our enemy.  My sorrel bounded off like a bird.  The fugitive had a good two minutes start of us; but our horses were fresh, while his had probably been ridden all day.  I patted my pony’s neck; she responded with a ringing neigh of joy.  We tore after the outlaw, all three of us abreast.  I felt a sort of fierce delight in the reaction after the fighting.  Our ponies galloped wildly over the plain; we burst out into the night, never heeding the Matabele whom we passed on the open in panic-stricken retreat.  I noticed that many of them in their terror had even flung away their shields and their assegais.

It was a mad chase across the dark veldt—­we three, neck to neck, against that one desperate runaway.  We rode all we knew.  I dug my heels into my sorrel’s flanks, and she responded bravely.  The tables were turned now on our traitor since the afternoon of the massacre.  He was the pursued, and we were the pursuers.  We felt we must run him down, and punish him for his treachery.

At a breakneck pace, we stumbled over low bushes; we grazed big boulders; we rolled down the sides of steep ravines; but we kept him in sight all the time, dim and black against the starry sky; slowly, slowly—­yes, yes!—­we gained upon him.  My pony led now.  The mysterious white man rode and rode—­head bent, neck forward—­ but never looked behind him.  Bit by bit we lessened the distance between us.  As we drew near him at last, Doolittle called out to me, in a warning voice:  “Take care, Doctor!  Have your revolvers ready!  He’s driven to bay now!  As we approach, he’ll fire at us!”

Then it came home to me in a flash.  I felt the truth of it.  “He dare not fire!” I cried.  “He dare not turn towards us.  He cannot show his face!  If he did, we might recognise him!”

On we rode, still gaining.  “Now, now,” I cried, “we shall catch him!”