For once, public opinion was sound in its judgment. Further information did arrive, this time authentic, and it had the effect of boiling down rumour considerably--in fact, by one-half. The four men had set out and crossed the Bashi into the Bomvana country, as at first stated. They had been attacked by the Kafirs in overwhelming numbers, and after a terrible running fight Hoste and Payne had escaped. Their horses had been mortally wounded and themselves forced to lie hidden among the thick bush and krantzes along the Bashi River for two nights and a day, when they were found in a half-starved condition by a strong patrol of the Rangers, which had turned back to search for them. The other two men were missing, and from the report of the survivors no hope could be entertained of their escape. In fact, their fate was placed beyond the shadow of a doubt, for the Rangers had proceeded straight to the scene of the conflict, and though they did not discover the bodies--which the jackals and other wild animals might have accounted for meanwhile--they found the spots, not very far apart, where both men had been slain, and in or near the great patches of dried-up blood were fragments of the unfortunate men's clothing and other articles, including a new and patent kind of spur known to have belonged to Milne. This was better. The killed had been reduced from four to two, the number of widows from three to one. Still, it was sufficiently terrible. Both men had lived in their midst--one for many years, the other for a shorter time--and were more or less well-known to all. This time the news was genuine, for three of the Rangers themselves had ridden in with all particulars. The sensation created was tremendous. Everybody had something to say. "Tell you what it is, boys," a weather-beaten, grizzled old farmer was saying--haranguing a gathering of idlers on the _stoep_ of the hotel. "There's always something of that sort happens every war. Fellers get so darn careless. They think because Jack Kafir funks sixty men he's in just as big a funk of six. But he ain't. They reckon, too, that because they can't see no Kafirs that there ain't no Kafirs to see. Jest as if they weren't bein' watched every blessed step they take. No, if you go out in a big party to find Jack Kafir you won't find him, but if you go out in a small one, he'll be dead sure to find you. You may jest bet drinks all round on that. Hey? Did you say you'd take me, Bill?" broke off the old fellow with a twinkle in his eye as he caught that of a crony in the group. "Haw, haw! No, I didn't, but I will though. Put a name to it, old _Baas_." "Well, I'll call it `French.' Three star for choice." The liquid was duly brought and the old fellow, having disposed of two-thirds at a gulp, resumed his disquisition.