Mr. Blakeney’s flesh-wound having been washed and bound up, and Seleti’s shattered shoulder similarly treated, the English party now pulled aside a corner of the thorn scherm and went down the line of their crippled opponents, whose groans and cries for assistance proclaimed that there was no further fight left in them. Three men lay dead. Among these was the Portuguese, Antonio Minho, with a bullet through his head. A big, burly Boer, identified by his wounded comrades as Hendrik Marais, lay also dead, shot through the heart; and a Damara wagon-driver had been also slain. Of the five wounded men, three were Boers, two natives. Of these, one of the Dutchmen, his chest pierced by a .450 bullet, died within the hour; the remaining four had sustained wounds which, although more or less severe, seemed quite likely to yield to treatment. Collecting the rifles of these unfortunates, the defenders now carried the wounded men into their own camp, and, laying them down under the shade of the wagon, proceeded to dress their hurts. Then followed breakfast, which was welcome enough to all. *Chapter XVIII.* *THE LAST OF KARL ENGELBRECHT.* At ten o’clock, shortly after they had again attended to the wounded men and given them some refreshment, Jan Kokerboom, who was patrolling up and down the line of defence, called out that a man was coming up the hill. Mr. Blakeney, Guy, Tom, and Poeskop at once ran forward, and, mounting the stone breastwork, looked down the ascent. Sure enough, a single figure, that of a Boer, was seen to be approaching. He carried a rifle, to which was tied a dirty white handkerchief. Keeping their rifles at the ready, the garrison waited until the man had walked to within fifty yards, when Mr. Blakeney called out to him to put down his firearm. The man obeyed, and continued to advance, still holding the handkerchief at arm’s length. The defenders now quitted their shelter and advanced to meet him. "What do you want?" asked Mr. Blakeney in Dutch, as the man, a big sturdy Boer, with a red beard, came up to them. "I’ve come," answered the man, "to say that my friends and I are sorry we ever threw in our lot with Karl Engelbrecht, and we want to know who is dead and what has happened to the wounded." "Well, in the first place," replied Mr. Blakeney, eyeing his man steadily, and speaking to him very coolly, "it’s rather late in the day, isn’t it, to come to us in this way, after all the mischief that has been done. Your blood is upon your own heads, of course; but I have a shrewd suspicion that if you had caught us napping, we should have had a pretty bad time of it. How many of us would have been alive now, do you think, if your ruffianly friend Engelbrecht had got into our camp?" The man actually blushed a furious red; his eyes stared at the ground in front of him; he knew not what to say.