The hair on Trooper Peter Halket’s forehead slowly stiffened itself. He had no thought of escaping; he was paralyzed with dread. He took up his gun. A deadly coldness crept from his feet to his head. He had worked a maxim gun in a fight when some hundred natives fell and only one white man had been wounded; and he had never known fear; but tonight his fingers were stiff on the lock of his gun. He knelt low, tending a little to one side of the fire, with his gun ready. A stone half sheltered him from anyone coming up from the other side of the kopje, and the instant the figure appeared over the edge he intended to fire. Then, the thought flashed on him; what, and if it were one of his own comrades come in search of him, and no bare-footed enemy! The anguish of suspense wrung his heart; for an instant he hesitated. Then, in a cold agony of terror, he cried out, “Who is there?” And a voice replied in clear, slow English, “A friend.” Peter Halket almost let his gun drop, in the revulsion of feeling. The cold sweat which anguish had restrained burst out in large drops on his forehead; but he still knelt holding his gun. “What do you want?” he cried out quiveringly. From the darkness at the edge of the kopje a figure stepped out into the full blaze of the firelight. Trooper Peter Halket looked up at it. It was the tall figure of a man, clad in one loose linen garment, reaching lower than his knees, and which clung close about him. His head, arms, and feet were bare. He carried no weapon of any kind; and on his shoulders hung heavy locks of dark hair. Peter Halket looked up at him with astonishment. “Are you alone?” he asked. “Yes, I am alone.” Peter Halket lowered his gun and knelt up. “Lost your way, I suppose?” he said, still holding his weapon loosely. “No; I have come to ask whether I may sit beside your fire for a while.” “Certainly, certainly!” said Peter, eyeing the stranger’s dress carefully, still holding his gun, but with the hand off the lock. “I’m confoundedly glad of any company. It’s a beastly night for anyone to be out alone. Wonder you find your way. Sit down! sit down!” Peter looked intently at the stranger; then he put his gun down at his side. The stranger sat down on the opposite side of the fire. His complexion was dark; his arms and feet were bronzed; but his aquiline features, and the domed forehead, were not of any South African race. “One of the Soudanese Rhodes brought with him from the north, I suppose?” said Peter, still eyeing him curiously. “No; Cecil Rhodes has had nothing to do with my coming here,” said the stranger. “Oh--” said Peter. “You didn’t perhaps happen to come across a company of men today, twelve white men and seven coloured, with three cart loads of provisions? We were taking them to the big camp, and I got parted from my troop this morning. I’ve not been able to find them, though I’ve been seeking for them ever since.”