"Thankye, sergeant," sighed the exhausted man. "It does one good to hear your voice again. Are we far from Groenfontein?" "About three miles," said Dickenson. "Ah!" said Lennox, with a groan. "Then I can't do it." "Yes, you can," said Dickenson warmly. "Here, hold on by the nag's mane while I dismount. We'll get you into the saddle, and walk the pony home." "Excuse me, sir; I'm dismounted," said the sergeant, "and I'd rather walk, please." "Thank you, James," said Dickenson. "I'll take your offer, for I'm nearly done up myself." "You keep still, then, sir.--Dismount, my lads, and help to get Mr Lennox into the saddle.--Rest on me, sir; I've got you. Sure you're not wounded, sir?" There was no reply; but the sergeant, who had passed his arm round his young officer's waist, felt him subside, and if the hold had not been tightened he would have sunk to the ground. "Got him?" cried Dickenson. "Yes, sir; all right. Fainted." "Fainted?" "Yes, sir. Regular exhaustion, I suppose. We'll get him into the saddle, and I think the best way will be for me to got up behind and hold him on, for he's regularly given up now that he has fallen among friends." "But the pony: will it carry you both?" "Oh yes, sir--at a walk. They're plucky little beasts, sir. But we've got him, sir, and that's what I didn't expect. I suppose we mustn't cheer?" "Cheer? No," said Dickenson excitedly. "Look here, sergeant; I'm a bit crippled, but I'll have him in front of me." "But he's on my pony now, sir, with the lads holding him. Had we better drag him down again? He's precious limp, sir; and I'm afraid he's hurt worse than he said." "Very well; keep as you are," said Dickenson hurriedly; and, almost unseen, the sergeant mounted behind his charge and began to feel about him for the best way of making the poor fellow as comfortable as possible. "He's got his sword all right, sir, but his revolver's gone. Stop a moment," continued the sergeant, fumbling in the darkness; "there's the lanyard, but his hat's gone too. There, I've got him nicely now. Mount, my lads." There was a rustling sound as the men sprang into their saddles again. "Ready?" said Dickenson. "Yes, sir." "Stop a moment. How are we to find our way back?" "We shall have to trust to the ponies, sir," said the sergeant. "Let's see; we have turned their heads round over this job. We must leave it to them; they'll find their way back, thinking they're going to get some more mealies. Trust them for that." "Forward at a walk!" said Dickenson. "Tut, tut, sergeant! It's as black as pitch. If a breeze would only spring up." "Dessay it will, sir, before long." "How does Mr Lennox seem?" "Head's resting on my clasped hands, sir, and he's sleeping like a baby--regular fagged out."