"Hold to the right! More to the right!" cried Blachland, edging further in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now, during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp "crack--crack" of the rifles of the advancing savages, the "whigge" and hum of missiles overhead--in front--around--all was as nothing. Then he realised that they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy's line. And then-- "Help, help! For God's sake, don't leave me!" A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all, the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and were rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to secure at any rate this one victim. "For God's sake, don't leave me!" again yelled the unfortunate man, the terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance. And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence. To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so grossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicable fashion? Anybody else--but this one--no, he would not. Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucial moment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet a bloody death had betrayed him--but another and a purer vision swept his brain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was that of Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed. Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to the unhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now near enough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar. "Isipau! Ha! Isipau!" "Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!"