At this moment Steve heard a groan on his right. Turning round, he saw a young fellow lying in such a position, that he perceived at once he must be wounded. He rolled himself towards the wounded man, took his head upon his knees and spoke to him, but received no answer. On examination he saw that he had been shot through the head. It was poor M’Donald, who, although shot through the brain, lived ten days longer, and then died, when he received an honoured funeral. Steve helped to carry the wounded man down the opposite side of the ridge into safety, where he was left with one more wounded Burgher, in a small deserted house, in the care of two men. Steve then returned to his place, and resumed his share in the fierce fight. The battle was raging fierce and hot. The cannon of the Chartered troops roared hoarsely above the rattle of small arms; while the continuous rat-a-tat-tat-tat of the Maxims was also to be distinguished from the more irregular and less incessant cracking of the rifles. A heavy cloud of smoke was floating above, concealing the sun as if it wished to hide the murderous work from the sight of Heaven. The slaughter amongst the Chartered troops was terrible. One detachment after another bravely charged the position of the Burghers, under the protection of their Maxims; but it was in vain, the heavy and accurate fire of the Burghers forced them to retire with great loss every time; and the Chartered troopers were only too glad to regain their shelter. In spite of his pity for them, Steve’s heart throbbed with a joy almost savage in its intensity when he saw the troopers giving way all along the line. They seemed to look for some point of safety towards which they might fly. But ’tis a vain hope. Look towards whatever side they will, they could see Burghers in the distance awaiting them. _They were thoroughly hemmed in._ Steve saw all this and realised the position in which Jameson must find himself. He tried to place himself in Jameson’s position in imagination. ‘What should I do if I were to find myself in such a hole of my own making? Should I surrender and take my chance of getting out alive? Could I expect to get out alive in case I surrendered? No! A filibustering murderer can expect nothing but death. Death would be my sentence, by _Human Laws_, by _Moral Law_, by God’s Law. I could not even expect a word of mercy from England. She has disowned me and my expedition, and I have disobeyed her. _No_, rather than give in now, after having ventured so much and risked so much to obtain my aim (whatever that may be), I would rather fight to the end and obtain that sympathy and that martyrdom that the grave always brings. That would be something, at least, while to surrender _now_ would mean eternal disgrace, trouble unending, and perhaps death on the scaffold.