The Mounted Infantry overtook the fugitive Zulus, and fell furiously, sword in hand, upon their left flank, but not without receiving a scattered fire that emptied a few saddles. The routed fled with a speed peculiarly their own; but Captain Barrow and his improvised troopers were in close pursuit, and from the laager their sword-blades could be seen flashing in the evening sunshine, as the cuts were dealt downward on right and left, and the foe was overtaken, pierced, and ridden over and through. In this work the force necessarily became somewhat broken, and Hammersley, who, in the ardour of the pursuit, and being splendidly mounted, had outstripped all the Mounted Infantry and gone perilously far in advance, had his horse shot under him. 'Captain Hammersley--Hammersley! He will be cut to pieces!' cried several of the soldiers, who saw him and his horse go down in a cloud of dust, and in another moment he was seen astride the fallen animal contending against serious odds with his sword and revolver. And now ensued one of those episodes which were of frequent occurrence in the service of our Mounted Infantry. Florian saw the sore strait in which Hammersley was placed, and had, quick as thought, but one desire--to save him or die by his side. At that part of the field a watercourse--a tributary of the Inyezene River--separated him from Hammersley, but putting the pace upon Tattoo, he rode gallantly to face it. Rider and horse seemed to possess apparently but one mind--one impulse. Tattoo cocked his slender ears, gave a glance at the water, sparkling in the setting sun, and, springing from his powerful and muscular hind-legs, cleared the stream from bank to bank--a distance not less than fifteen feet. 'Well done, old man!' exclaimed Florian; 'you _are_ game!' 'Hurra!' burst from several of the troop, some of whom failed to achieve the leap. So Florian rode forward alone, and in less time than we have taken to record it, was by the side of Hammersley, who was bleeding from a wound in the left arm from an assegai launched at him by one of three powerful savages with whom he was contending, and in whom Florian recognised Methagazulu, the son of the famous Sirayo. The last shot in Hammersley's revolver disposed of one; Florian shot a second, 'and drove his bayonet through the side of Sirayo's son, whom others were now returning to succour, and, lifting Hammersley on his own horse, conducted him rearward to a place of safety, covering the rear with his rifle, pouring in a quick fire with an excellent aim till a dozen of his comrades came up and received them both with a cheer. Though wounded, Methagazulu did not die then, for, as we have elsewhere said, the close of the war found him a prisoner in the gaol of Pietermaritzburg.