"Skelsey! Where are you?" he called, but not loudly. "Skelsey!" He listened intently. Was that an answer? Something between a cry and a groan--and--it was behind him. He turned his horse, and as he did so, the thought occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap--that the savages might already have butchered his comrade, and be lying in wait to take him with the least trouble and risk to themselves. Well, he must chance it, and the chances were about even. "Skelsey! Where are you, old chap?" he called again in a low tone. This time an answer came, but faintly. "Here." Lying under a bush was the missing man. He raised his head feebly, and gazed with lack-lustre eyes at his would-be rescuer. "Get up behind me, quick!" said the latter. "Can't. I've sprained my ankle. Can't stand. I was going to crawl to the river and end it all." "Well, you've got to ride instead. Come, I'll give you a hand. Quick, man! There are a lot of Matabele after you, I struck their spoors." The while he had been helping the other to rise. Skelsey groaned and ground his teeth with the pain. He was exhausted too, with starvation. "Can't help it. You must pull yourself together," said Blachland, hoisting him into the saddle and himself mounting behind. "Now stick tight on for all you know how, for we've got to run for it." "Ping-ping!" A bullet hummed overhead, then another. The horse snorted and plunged forward, nearly falling. The ground was rough, the condition of the animal indifferent, and the double burden considerably too much for his strength. There followed another crash or two of rifles from behind, then no more. The savages reckoned their prey secure. They could easily distance a lean horse, badly overloaded, on such ground as this, without further expenditure of ammunition. Now they streamed forward through the bush to overtake and butcher the two fugitives. Of the above Blachland was as fully aware as the pursuers themselves. There was no safety for two, not a ghost of a chance of it. For one there was a chance, and it fairly good. Which was that one to be? "_Jji--Jji!--Jji--jji_!" The hideous battle-hiss vibrated upon the air in deep-toned stridency. A glance over his shoulder. He could see the foremost of the savages ranging up nearer and nearer, assegais gripped ready to run in and stab. Which was that one to be? In the flash of that awful moment a vision of Lyn rose before him--Lyn, in her fair, sweet, golden-haired beauty. Was he never to see her again? Why not? A loosening of his hold of the man in the saddle in front of him, a slight push, and he himself was almost certainly safe. No human eye would witness the deed, least of all would it ever be suspected. On the contrary, all would bear witness how he had ridden back into grave peril to try and rescue a missing comrade, and Lyn would approve--and even a happiness he had hardly as yet dared dream of might still be his. And--it should.