"Well," said Mr. Blakeney, "we’re in a curious position, and must look upon ourselves as prisoners for the present. With ordinary luck I think Poeskop and the other men will be able to relieve us. What Poeskop has bolted away for is quite clear. He knows he has somehow got to find three hundred and twenty feet of hide rope. Altogether I think they may have up there--the remnants of what we did not use for the ladder--eighty or a hundred feet. He and the other three men have got to find the rest. They’ll, of course, go out, leaving one man in charge of the oxen and horses, and shoot game till they get enough raw hide for the purpose. Poeskop says three days; I believe it will be nearer a week before they can do the business. I don’t think there will be any interruptions, but I’ll ask the Hottentot what became of the other party of Boers." Five minutes’ cross-questioning of Quasip elicited the fact that Engelbrecht and his allies had quarrelled, after the repulse of their attack on the camp, and that the Boers had trekked for Benguela. "That’s all right," said Mr. Blakeney to the two lads. "Barring accidents, our men will perform their task, and put together a rope strong enough to haul up the ladder here. Now we’ll have some food, and then settle to work again. We’ve got three or four days before us, and we may as well make the best of them, and add to our stock of gold. Luckily we’ve got a week’s supply of flour, coffee, and other necessaries. We have plenty of meat, and can shoot more when we need it. We shall be all right, and must just go about our work quietly till the rope comes." They turned away from the dread spectacle of the dead Boer, and rekindled their fire. A kettle being boiled, they made some coffee. Mr. Blakeney ate some lunch, but the two lads, beyond drinking some coffee and eating a morsel of bread apiece, had little stomach for the meal. The horror of the tragedy of Karl Engelbrecht had upset them. "Pater," said Tom, "I can eat no lunch, and I don’t think Guy has much appetite either. That sight over yonder has fairly sickened me." "Well," said his father, "it is rather horrible, I grant. I became hardened to horrors of this kind in the Basuto War of 1879. At the storming of Morosi’s Mountain in that year we witnessed many unpleasant incidents, which hardened one’s stomach to scenes of this kind. This fall of Engelbrecht is, I admit, far worse than the state of affairs the morning after our fight the other day, when we had to look after the enemy’s dead and wounded." "Yes, uncle, far worse," added Guy. "I, for one, shall never forget the ending of Karl Engelbrecht. It’s horrible!" After lunch they went back to the scene of the tragedy. The Hottentot Quasip, on being questioned, volunteered to help them.