To one we may be sure this aspect of affairs is borne in upon with searing, maddening force. Outwardly deadly calm, Lamont is superintending, directing everything, yet when the head of a savage shows itself above the palings it drops back, drilled by a soft-nosed bullet from the unerring magazine rifle. His back is against the dwelling-house of the store, as he watches and directs operations. "What chance have we?" The voice, firm and without a tremor, is from the window just at his back. He cannot resist one quick turn of the head for one last look at the pale, set, beautiful face--ah! and the anguish of that moment renders him a hundredfold more desperate. "My Clare! Do you want to live after capture?" and he hardly knows his own voice. "No." "Quite sure?" "Need you ask?" "Then--when I say, `Now!' say the `_Commendo spiritum meum_' and turn your back to me. Understand?" "I understand." There is no time for words. In the shadow of this grim, sudden, violent death, the same thought is in both their minds. Would the next few moments, the fleeting agony of one swift pang over, unite them together for evermore, or-- Three sharp detonating explosions, one after another, staggered them, with their vibrating shock upon the air. With howls of dismay the swarming savages had scattered, rushing helter-skelter in all directions. Not all, though--no not all. Many would never rush anywhere again. The first glimmer of explanation came in the shape of Grunberger, who stood, chuckling and choking and shaking with laughter. The sight sobered those who beheld it, all inured as they were to ghastly sights. Had the man's brain suddenly given way? "_Ach, so_!" he chuckled. "_Ach, so_! De tam niggers haf got one leetle shock this time. Here goes for another." And with the words, he raised his arm, and seemed to hurl something he held in his hand far out beyond the stockade. In an instant the same vibrating roar seemed to stun the air. Then the explanation stood revealed. The ingenious German had been turning time to account by doing a little stroke of business on his own. He had got out some dynamite cartridges, and, having set them with a cleverly contrived fuse, had hurled them into the thick of the enemy where he judged they would do most execution. His calculation was rewarded, for now, imagining that they were being attacked in the rear, and utterly demoralised by the havoc and concussion, the Matabele warriors stampeded in a wild frenzy of terror, leaving the whole of that side open. "You've saved us, Grunberger," cried Lamont. "By God! you've saved us, man." "_Ach, so_! Well, I think I made de tam niggers feel sick."