Benita expected that Jacob Meyer would be very angry with her, and braced herself for a scene. But nothing of the sort happened. A while afterwards she saw the two of them approaching, engaged apparently in amicable talk. “Mr. Meyer says that I am no mesmerist, love,” said her father, “and I can quite believe him. But for all that it is a weary job. I am as tired as I was after our escape from the Matabele.” She laughed and answered: “To judge by results I agree with you. The occult is not in your line, father. You had better give it up.” “Did you, then, feel nothing?” asked Meyer. “Nothing at all,” she answered, looking him in the eyes. “No, that’s wrong, I felt extremely bored and sorry to see my father making himself ridiculous. Grey hairs and nonsense of that sort don’t go well together.” “No,” he answered. “I agree with you--not of that sort,” and the subject dropped. For the next few days, to her intense relief, Benita heard no more of mesmerism. To begin with, there was something else to occupy their minds. The Matabele, tired of marching round the fortress and singing endless war-songs, had determined upon an assault. From their point of vantage on the topmost wall the three could watch the preparations which they made. Trees were cut down and brought in from a great distance that rude ladders might be fashioned out of them; also spies wandered round reconnoitring for a weak place in the defences. When they came too near the Makalanga fired on them, killing some, so that they retreated to the camp, which they had made in a fold of ground at a little distance. Suddenly it occurred to Meyer that although here the Matabele were safe from the Makalanga bullets, it was commanded from the greater eminence, and by way of recreation he set himself to harass them. His rifle was a sporting Martini, and he had an ample supply of ammunition. Moreover, he was a beautiful marksman, with sight like that of a hawk. A few trial shots gave him the range; it was a shade under seven hundred yards, and then he began operations. Lying on the top of the wall and resting his rifle upon a stone, he waited until the man who was superintending the manufacture of the ladders came out into the open, when, aiming carefully, he fired. The soldier, a white-bearded savage, sprang into the air, and fell backwards, while his companions stared upwards, wondering whence the bullet had come. “Pretty, wasn’t it?” said Meyer to Benita, who was watching through a pair of field-glasses. “I dare say,” she answered. “But I don’t want to see any more,” and giving the glasses to her father, she climbed down the wall. But Meyer stayed there, and from time to time she heard the report of his rifle. In the evening he told her that he had killed six men and wounded ten more, adding that it was the best day’s shooting which he could remember. “What is the use when there are so many?” she asked.