But though she spoke thus bravely, in her heart Sihamba was much afraid, for except the _schimmel_ their horses were almost spent, whereas Van Vooren was fresh mounted, and not a mile behind. Still they galloped forward till they reached a more broken stretch of veldt, where trees grew singly, and here and there were kloofs with bush in them. “Mistress,” cried Zinti, “my horse can go no more, and Bull-Head is hard upon us. Of your wisdom tell me what I should do or presently I must be killed.” “Ride into that kloof and hide yourself,” answered Sihamba, “for Bull-Head will never seek you there; he hunts the white Swallow, not the black finch. Afterwards you can follow on our spoor, and if you cannot find us, make your way back to the Baas Botmar and tell him all you know. Quick, into the kloof, for here they cannot see you.” “I hear you, lady,” said Zinti, and the next minute they saw him leading his weary horse into the shelter of the thick bush, for the poor beast could carry him no more. For the next three miles the ground trended downwards to the banks of a great river, beyond which were the gentle rising slopes that surrounded the foot of the high peak. On they galloped, the _schimmel_ never faltering in his swinging stride, although his flanks grew thin and his eyes large. But with the grey mare it was otherwise, for though she was a gallant nag her strength was gone. Indeed, with any heavier rider upon her back, ere this she would have fallen. But still she answered to Sihamba’s voice and plunged on, rolling and stumbling in her gait. “She will last till the river,” she said, seeing Suzanne look at the mare. “And then——?” gasped Suzanne, glancing behind her to where, not five hundred yards away, Swart Piet and his Kaffirs hunted them sullenly and in silence, as strong dogs hunt down a wounded buck. “And then—who knows?” answered Sihamba, and they went on without more words, for they had no breath to spare. Now, not half a mile away, they came in sight of the river, which had been hidden from them before by the lie of the ground, and a groan of despair broke from their lips, for it was in flood. Yes, the storms in the mountains had swollen it, and it rolled towards the sea a red flood of foam-flecked water, well-nigh two hundred yards from bank to bank. Still they rode on, for they dared not stop, and presently behind them they heard a shout of triumph, and knew that their pursuers had also seen the Red Water, and rejoiced because now they had them in a trap. Within ten yards of the lip of the river, the grey mare stopped suddenly, shivered like a leaf in the wind and sank to the ground. “Now, Swallow,” said Sihamba as she slipped from the saddle, “you must choose between that raging torrent and Swart Piet. If you choose the torrent the great horse is still strong and he may swim through; I can say no more.” “And you?” asked Suzanne. “I? I bide here, and oh! I would that Zinti had left the gun with me.”